By Jocelyn Dorsey
Being a bird, I flew t’wards your bright light.
But how was I to know
that you were the scorching sun,
instead of a comforting candle?
And as you told me pretty, “pragmatic” things,
I felt the wax melting from my wings.
Flames from your fire scathed my feathers.
My lingering hopes were razed by your last letter.
With one final cry, I felt my heart wither and die.
It tumbled down—for crippled wings can’t fly—
and buried itself in the ashes of our friendship.
There it wallowed as the fire grew dimmer,
and burned low.
The ashes cooled to coals.
All was freezing night.
Sometime later, the coals began to simmer,
and they warmed up to a glorious glow.
The heated embers shifted.
A red-gold wing broke free from the black coals.
You see, I’m not a simple swallow;
I don’t just die.
I am a phoenix;
I die—but then I am reborn.