Shooting Flames Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(flashed on by a balsam ragwort)

(i)

We live in the polygon
of a nine-point star
our enneagram flying
with the wings
of a yellow butterfly.

We sometimes fly
with the spread
and sprayed wings

of sunny goldfinches
sailing side by side

with budgerigars puffed
into balloons
of their swelling pride

and ashes of their chirrups
and snippets,
when they're burnt
out into their smoky feathers.

Attired and groomed
in dandelion and bumblebee
harpoons, we're shot

into a pitch to tackle
opponents from angles
as sharp and flamy
as the spiked points of our stars.

(ii)

More than fleeting fireflies,
we dive in our flames

into tackling chests
and shoulders
to run down opponents

into rolling fiery fumbles.
In the silky jerseys
of monarch butterflies
and yellow swallowtails,
we wriggle our way,

cutting angled corners,
as we flap off dust
into our opponents' eyes.

(iii)

Bullies in the pitch
never grind us
in our arched spread

into the yellow dust of pollen
bloating us back
to sailing suns rushing
for hundred-meter home runs.

We strike too
with the spikes of our stars
for the puncture
that buys us time,

when our opponents'
silver stars
thin out into dimes,

as we spring out
from yellow chrome
to ignite
the bonfire of a home run,

and our player
dives above a star into the nebula
of a racing night

crashing into the chest
of a barking umpire
biting his tongue about a score,

while we flash out huge
yellow stars
on the flags of raised shoulders
growing into balloons of victory.