Phoenix Consumed – a poem by L.B. Stringfellow

Phoenix Consumed

I am the bird
who flew for years
under the sun,

until I took the sun
into my wings,
into my breast.
……………..It raged and heated
until I was raged and heated.

My wings lost their feathers
and I fell, fluttering
……………..spines of arms
from the sun.

I fell for a long time.

The sun was still in me,
but I could do nothing
……………..except cry and lift my arms
hopelessly for the sky.

The gods could not save me.

Flames flickered and crept, dragon-tongued,
their hungry presence overtaking my body.

Then, no body.

–Only my bird spirit
fused to flame.

We move through this space
as though our forms are us–
But I am here to tell you,
……………..we do not die,
we do not stop.

L.B. Stringfellow writes both verse and prose poetry, often exploring themes of transformation, woundedness, and interdependence in her poetry.  She grew up in the Southern US, has worked as a university instructor and as a professional tutor, and holds an MA in English and an MFA in Creative Writing.