The First Years

The First Years
Locals call it the gates of hell, crater
in the Turkmenistan desert burning
forty years. The longest-burning fire began
six thousand years ago—an Australian
coal seam in New South Wales ignited by lightning,
smiting the biome into barren trails.
But I always come back to the coal seam
blazing under Centralia, Pennsylvania,
where a trash fire plumed against veins of earth.
Since then, it razors through mines, sixty years
feeding on bituminous coal. This is us,
love, hitched at our flash points, flaming head of us
lit incandescent. We are soot torching
ultraviolet, photon emissions burst
from atoms. We wear each other’s infrared bands.
In outer space, any flame turns to blue sphere.
But here, our first year, we radiated white.
Rages birthed divorce threats, smelted into sex.
Now, we are flameless combustion, licked flint,
divine red. Love exists in spite of us.