paper/fire

[This is much revised from the previous version I posted]

I speak to you now from my paper world,

this delicate shoebox diorama

that I have carefully constructed out of tiny strips

cut from the pages of storybooks

and other people’s poems.

Painstakingly I have trimmed and clipped and curled them

into familiar objects, arranged them

within these three cardboard walls

as a child arranges and rearranges a dollhouse.

I have cut out crisp silhouettes for companions,

lovingly detailed their arms and eyes and hair

with a sharp pencil,

painted their bracelets and neckties

in rich colors with a tiny brush.

I have dyed the background of my box

a brilliant life-green like trees

and a wild blue like the ocean.

This is a world that must be kept out of the wind,

away from the fire.

(Paper lovers beware.)

It is a world once removed from its own beating heart,

a flat white story, full of words and wisdoms,

signifying nothing.

I know this world.

I have traced over every corner,

every curve of it with my fingers

a thousand times.

But it is not the world I want.

I want the flame world,

I want the world of hot coals and heavy winds and open seas.

I speak to you now through these flat sheets of paper

only because

they are all I have.

A match, a match, my kingdom for a match.