Scorch “You love without burning,” Augustine observed of God— as if the miracle of love, combustible as dry grass, might flash into flame, scorching the soul of man. Or smolder, its embers remnants of creation’s burden: to be made in His image, unworthy of the brand— wisps of smoke trailing from our skin, reaching out with blazing hand toward everything we venerate, cherish, adore. Like Midas, but with fire instead of gold.
Alfred Fournier is an entomologist, writer and community volunteer living in Phoenix, Arizona. His poetry and prose have appeared in Lunch Ticket, Plainsongs, Toho Journal, Welter, Ocotillo Review and elsewhere. New work is forthcoming at The Main Street Rag and The Perch Magazine.