And the house made of old newspapers
on fire
and the lows of papier-mâché cows
as they watch
and me inside, on my knees
in my finest wool suit
and the edges of my lapels
my frayed wig
my cuffs, smoldering
and the pictures, bubbling in their frames
and you, nude
save for the miter and chasuble
walking towards me
and my hands turning to glass
as I touch you
and the clef of scars they make
on your skin
and the notches of your spine
which I play like a flute
and even inside the fire’s vitreous chatter
the muteness, rising
to the very eaves of our ribs.


Matt McBride has previously published poems in Another Chicago Magazine, Columbia Poetry ReviewCream City Review, FENCE, Forklift, and Smartish Pace, amongst others. His latest chapbook, Cities Lit by the Light Caught in Photographs was just recently released by H_NGM_N Books.