THE BURN AND THE GODS

Don 't let me be known by this,

I pleaded to the gods of momentary insanity.

It was the time I accidently

put the palm of my hand

flush down on the stove hot plate.

I cried out and people came running.

All the humans were concerned for my welfare

but those looking down on me

were busting a gut.

I can still hear their taunting.

Does the arsonist set himself on fire?

Does the welder drop metal down his boot?

Is the intent of a cook

to roast the chicken or his fingers?

Hasn't a boy learned that

he's not at his best

darting about the house

and screaming," Oh Jeezus!"

I rinsed my searing skin under a tap.

My mother applied honey.

My sister came at me with a butter dish.

I held that hand high

so that the blood ran out of it

and the rest of my body could forget it was there.

But it continued to sting, to blister.

And I cursed ten thousand times

the poor soul who invented heat.

No family member lectured me

but those gods were more than generous

with their incessant "I told you so."

It was a week or more before the bandage came off.

For me, it was a relief.

For the gods, a taking down of their banner.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.