By Chad Hollis
The trick to lighting matches
is to allow the flame to bite into your fingers.
Then the fire is a part of you,
the fear burned away.
You can scorch the world with your secrets.
Stare into the forbidden and its strength is yours.
Let no one tell you otherwise.
Salvation was kept out of my reach,
my thanks are long since overdue.
You stole these words for ones like me,
now I’ll give them back to you.
This catechism rubs off on my fingers.
Flashlit liturgy, the shared communion
of a Lucky Strike. The figures twine in
cartoony heat… we remain unmoved.
I used to pray to a Goddess I’d never see,
now we worship yards of silver nitrate.
My Mother by choice not chance,
writing is my savior, my guardian true.
You stole these words for ones like me,
now I’ll give them back to you.
Yes, I’m “born again,” to myself this time.
A novel idea after all my pain.
After waiting to be spoken for,
when I wanted to scream.
After having my lexicon taken from me.
My Goddess who art in Dreamland:
I will hold your hand in Hell…
or Bellevue or Limbo or wherever they stick
people like us. In love with dubious laughter,
mortal sins, walking nightmares.
Their fantasies end where our future begins.
We’ll slip away when the witch hunts rekindle.
Divine intervention will speed our return.
When they come for us, they will find nothing.
A few blank pages for them to burn.