Third Degree Burns
I once met a psychic who told me
that when you join hands with another person
you can feel the pressure points light up
in your arms
for each past life you knew them in
when you and I linked fingers
on that summer night so long ago
the fireflies flickered in and out of the darkness
like tiny golden stars dancing
on the heavy, humid breeze
that carried the sticky scent of pink carnations
our arms grew warm and glowed
white-hot, like the fiery brand
suddenly pressing itself into my chest
that entire summer, we slept all morning and afternoon
because our bodies were too hot for daylight hours
I burned my tongue on your fingertips
as you fed me sweet pomegranate seeds
from the smooth cup of your palm
even at night the heat was almost unbearable
so we took to walking through
the fountain in the park, hand in hand,
watching the water hit our skin and evaporate in an instant
into sweet steam that rose up to the tree-tops
our favorite pastime was
to go out to dinner and play footsie
with the ice cubes from our water glasses
I couldn’t tell at first, but eventually
the burns from your lips left dark scars all over
apparently, in our last life,
we used to get frostbites so easily
that we’d draw snowflake patterns inside our thighs
in late August our skin started to peel at the edges,
worn down from all the cracks and blisters
a heat wave took the city into the high nineties
and early one evening your thumb caught fire,
toasting the pomegranate seeds
into a fine red powder that blew away with the wind
by the beginning of September
you would turn up the air in our flat and cry
that you were ready for the leaves to change color