by Jane Cope
My job is to light a fire. The suns
of my dreams have told me my job
is to light a fire every night
and I have taken it to heart.
I keep the bass line thumping,
I keep my tongue my wick to
I’ve lit birthday candles and tea lights
smoke grills and semaphores
trash cans and sanitariums
I’ve burned down the bank
so we might conceive of relations
outside of finance. I’ve mapped
exit plans and escape routes.
The suns tell me to lay low,
to keep my belly to the grass.
I turn the key
Jane Cope is a poet and translator based in Chicago. Their work has appeared in publications by PilotPress London, Hooligan Magazine, Best Buds! Journal, and Upstairs at Duroc. They also host occasional online community writing workshops and artist meetups. Find them on twitter @gouinasserie and on instagram @kitchencobweb