When a phoenix immolates herself,
What does she light the pyre with?
Does she carry a pilot light inside?
And when she rises, what from?
And what does she become?
Is she reborn or transformed?
I like to think that when I ignite
It is a spontaneous reaction.
I like to pretend that I have not been gathering tinder
And rubbing my sticklike legs together
In a conscious effort to commit auto-arson.
But I know when my temper is rising.
I know when the pressure is building.
I know when I am about to explode.
And yet I let it happen, repeatedly.
I guess there is a part of me that craves the heat.
It must be part of my instinct to brave the flames.
I can’t seem to find any less dangerous way to evolve.
And so I set myself off and feel myself rise like fire.
And then I awake in a bed of cinders.
I look the same but I feel blank inside.
And so, like a cygnet just out of the egg,
I waddle out of the nest and begin again.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
happy nightly combustion! spring flowers every morning