Surely,
I’m not the first
woman
to get burned,
consumed,
reduced to ash
Who
didn’t just step
too close
to the flame, but
walked myself —
like Shadrach
Meshach, and
Abednego —
into the furnace
Who
learned firsthand,
at his hand,
what love is not
through baptism by immersion in
the crucible’s cradle of heat,
rocked into oblivion,
burned beyond recognition
Who
looked one last time
for herself
reflected back, and
the image spoke of
recognition, of
a glimmer, of
hope in a
pile of ash
Who
heard herself
through the looking glass
demand
she rise —
like a phoenix
with borrowed wings —
to leave
the burning
behind.