LOOK AT my hand, he told me
during a brownout years ago,
and his finger passed cleanly
through the candle's flame once,
twice, and again, moving nearer
each time, teasing the heart
of fire as I stared in awe.
Another time he showed me
how to make crayons bleed,
how to hold them close enough
to the lighter so they'd melt
and drop in thick, blackened
blots of color against
the smoothness of paper.
The last time, I refused to believe
that roaches could scream
in extreme pain. So he stunned
one with a rubber slipper,
set it wriggling on the burner,
amd cried out, Watch!
as he twisted the knob.
A thin, shrill sound burst
from the body of the roach
as it roasted in blue flames.
Let's try it again, he grinned,
but then my Mom peeked in
and shrieked at the sight
of the charred, shriveled-up
remains on her stove.
The kitchen reeked for days
and he learned never to come
back. I can't even remember
his name. I think of him
sometimes, before blowing out
candles, and I am sure I see
his grin in the eye of the flame-
the mocking smile of someone
who has never been burned.
