This picture that you love—
a sea of flames
I cannot enter—

But it’s just a portrait,
you say,
a baptism of fire.

How could I find myself in this?
Birds flying away
through a tangle of trees?

Hellfire, I think,
is a sea of fire over your mantel.
Framed scintillation.

To find the meaning, you say,
throw yourself
into its meaning.

I step backward.
An inferno, I think,
is not my idea of beauty.

Who
does not deserve better
than this, I answer.

This is just a picture,
you argue, of colors,
luminosity, incandescence,

No, Love
is not a scorching
even if it lights up the sky.

I tie up the cool
ends of my heart into
a ribbon of safety.

After all,
yours is just a portrait
of fake fire.

I’d never
really
be able to enter.