Red Tree & Oblivious, Two poems by Jamie Parsley

a gift from Gin
For over a month, fire has raged
on the otherwise bare white wall—
a single red flame like the sanctuary
light before the symbol-festooned aumbry
that heralds the sacred Presence.
All this time it glows there—
red as a heart and just as big.
It pulsed there—
thudding steadily against the wall
the way a well-wound clock does.

It shimmers and sways
as though caught in
some perpetual autumn backdraft.

For over a month, fire has burned
on my wall without consuming it.
It leaves no ash, no ghost of itself
in an exhausting exhale of gray smoke.
It burns simply, fueled by its own
bursting forth.

Light fades on the wall, shapeless.
It scattered itself first against
the orange door and then the red,
finally leaving itself tall and green.

Something floats near here.
It is heavy and stout.
Its head mouths something
exotic as the Gobi.

It would be nice to stay here
in this light that falls
so perfectly upon us.
We want, after all, warmth
and anonymity.
Everything else is—
and should be—
out of fashion and boring.

The light turns
first on the red door
then on the orange,
as we stand here—
warm and blessedly
oblivious.