Mary Buchinger

That we be combustible,

I was reminded yesterday,
the immolation of a pilot from Jordan,
the burning up of an SUV driver
and five commuter train passengers.

I stand in this crowded subway car,
shoulder to shoulder, we are
fat and muscle, gristle
and skin—incandescent.

One man struggles getting a book
from his pack, an enormous coffee table art
book, now open,
held above the heads of the seated—

Matisse cutouts—
hot pink, flaming orange.