There are baby phoenixes
burning inside my lungs.
They want to grow
into their deaths
and fiery unabated splendor,
want to consume the ash-cake
coronating their birth-days,
which matches abolition to symmetry.
I am being asked, no forced
to open my mouth
and breathe their remedial fire
out, as if it’s my own,
to give due ventilation
to the ribbed arterial flames
that seek the spatial cradle of air
in measureless rebirthing.
It seems complicated
and esoteric, but really it isn’t.
The way of living mythology
follows its own inviolable course,
a track attuned not to the world’s fractures
but to reality’s filial bond with itself.
There are ancient-new phoenixes
burning inside my lungs,
and with every breath I take
I grow intimately closer to identity loss
through medicinal arson.