Poetry | The Change | Mary Ann Schaefer

The Change listen
Being in the world
	is a firefight when frost
whitewashes windows

	and meanwhile inside her skin
the heart is pumping lava—
	a swelter that squeezes

steam from every pore and
	blisters into furious blazes
that singe eyebrows.  So

	it might look like fluster
when she interrupts, lifting
	the swivel chair overhead to hurl

it through a window, even as
	she sits simmering, parenthetically
crying.  She is wildly wishing

	they, the fraternity, weren’t
watching, begrudging patiently
	and always in a concerned

way.  If only the lordliness
	weren’t causing her eyeballs
to backfire, she’d answer

	more respectfully:  No sir,
I don’t mind doing it
	again, better yet.  Instead

her lightning flash temper
	forks and claps obscenely;
disgorging volcanic rage.

	Truth be told, women who
disavow brooding, well, they
	piss blood for a lifetime

until now spitting fire like a
	dragon excites, at last, passion.
Look how she loves to lick

	the flames from skillful
fingers and thrust out
	her buxom heart amid

sparks flying.  Without
	prescriptions, she’ll ignite
as onlookers stand by wondering.

	Here’s a hint:  Joan of Arc
swallowed the torch,
	ecstatically unrepentant.