Allegra Wilson

secret burning haibun

At first it didn’t burn. Grit between teeth is easy to ignore when you grow up
eating many small pieces of glass. My soft mouth roughed with sand, I am a
clam making the first layer of pearl. Smoke described as fog. I found your hidden
bits of all our hair and teeth, woven together as a blanket for your fear. Unfolded
as a comforter on our bed. I am a static charged spark. Safety a dry tinder. Gusts
of desire. Whoosh. A jam jar filled with flame, ominous glow. I am a bat-winged
moth pressed against glass. I creep from window to window, hunger-eyed, envy
inward. Heat is who I am, molten ember home, tasting ash and orange honey.
Fractal blaze devours my walled diaries. Charred skin of your heart forecasts
debridement. I am not a doctor. I am sugared brimstone to be eaten.

Allegra Wilson is a mother, organizer, queer person, and emerging writer. She has read and written poetry from an early age, and has work published or forthcoming in Bear Review, Action, Spectacle, and JanusWords. She lives in Northern California with her family.