At some point or other, we’ve all wished to warm our hands alongside the cleansing fires. 1Wise-Woman’s “Arsonist,” explores this urge beautifully.

A Wise Woman Writes

Birthed into flames

Neonatal neurosis

Suckled on psychosis

Face streaked black

Chocking on ash

Back against the wall

Tucked into crumbling

Child’s memory

Tell me lies of

Wind in my hair


From a tree

Once anchored

Now singed

As my heart

Rotten roots

Fight for life

Never ends

Home sweet home

Gorged with grief

Something’s gotta give

Give me my knife

Turn over birthright

That I may slice

Away limbs

Of fragmented family tree

Snagging on guilt

And what was supposed to be

Rise and disappear

Just vapor lost to

Unstable atmosphere

Imprisoned progeny

Preserved pyre

Smolders like hope

Time of reckoning

Is here

I am my

Own arsonist

Warming hands

On a burning world of


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