Howard Firkin
Incinerate me. Turn it on me. Let
me feel my skin heat, then begin to burn
beneath your searchlight smile. I want to learn
I can’t resist your questions. Better yet,
just tell me what you want me to confess.
I can’t deny you anything—you’re so
fist to the solar plexus beautiful.
Alight with pain, I’ll try to play it cool,
but you’ll decide, you’ll tell me when to go,
and leave me here, a charred and crumpled mess.

You nominate the time and place and crime
and I’ll commit it. Anything to please.
Just tell me what you want, just say that I’m
the one for whom you’ll throw away the keys.