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POETRY

His Fire

Afraid
that if my hand enters the flame
nerves will be burnt
not to feel further.

I pull the metal curtain,
shut the glass doors.
The fire flares orange to yellow.

Away from its heat
I am cold.
Maybe I could
callous fingertips to the point

they can enter fire
deeply, briefly,
mesh in it fully
if only for a moment.

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Phil Flott is a retired Catholic priest. Lately he has had poems in Vita Poetica, Agape Review, Poetic Sun, and others.

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Photo Credit: “hand/fire” by Serena Epstein, Flickr.com.