Poems

muse of arms

By Beth Bachmann

To swallow fire, first, listen to the direction of the wind.

If you are not careful, you can always hear the birds.

The trick is stillness. When I say, wait, don't move, don't

move. Pleasure is blinding but pain is a different beast.

At what point does the hand stop being the hand?

The crow's face in the bucket of wet coals is black

where petals do not cloak it. Where's the line? Fire-

walker, water, like blood, steadies heat. Fire-eater,

breathe in. First, place an ear to the tracks to count

the distance to the piston. The skin of a citrus cannot

conduct current. A broken circuit blocks the light.