You pour the flour. Click the heat. Serve. And the room is an hourglass. And the people are a flood of silence. Agape.
Your hair is red. Mine is being lost. I am a hundred waves burying my own voice but the witch in my bones elevates me above this eternally wet desert and wipes my face clean of its waterfall as the witch in your bones floats your feet into the oblivion of your own desire.
I am my own cauldron. I the bath of my body. “Aren’t you 29?” Aww, thanks, but no I am the phoenix and the phoenix is dust years old.
Once someone told me I was beautiful then sprayed perfume in my face. A sample. On commission. Paper airplane in my hair. Meanwhile, you wag your finger in the perfume aisle and he comes, beautiful his fingers in his belt loops.
What is the recipe for salvation? The beak of me scrawls its torch across your menu. You can use my dust in your next meal. I can be part confection. Drop me into the cauldron. Men will eat me like air. But I will rise and rise again.
Erik Fuhrer is the author of 6 books of poetry, including Eye, Apocalypse (Spuyten Duyvil, 2021). This poem is from a collection of poems dedicated to the work of Sarah Michelle Gellar. Erik can be found on Instagram @erikjfuhrer and at erik-fuhrer.com.