Dace (dace) wrote in randompoems,

I Could Have Danced All Night If I Hadn't Spontaneously Combusted

(Author Unknown)

When it was still there is August
my landlady threatened to call the fire department.
The pine needles were already so thick and dry
and sharp on the carpet,
even with socks on
you couldn't walk without drawing blood.
But I was in love
and it was bigger than anything they'd ever shown on television.
My Christmas tree had become a Magnificent Obsession.

It was more than the red, black, fuschia,
and turquoise lace draped around it,
or the Rudraksha, crystal, and angelskin coral.
It was more than the gracefully curved plastic corkscrew drinking straw
and the brass pennywhistle all the way from Ireland
balanced skillfully in the nether branches.
I was more than the fact
that they never let me have one when I was a kid
because I was Jewish.

There was something that made me keep that tree
through Valentine's Day
and hang little pastel hearts all over it.
There was something, on Easter,
that made me hang all those hollow eggs I decorated myself
with Day-Glo paint and macaroni.
I had to stop letting people over -
they didn't understand.
My Christmas tree and I celebrated the Forth of July together.
I wore a red, white, and blue jumpsuit.
The tree wore at least 100 tiny American flags.
You see, when they said my Christmas tree had become a fire hazard,
I knew they didn't mean somebody would strike a match nearby.
It was a fire hazard because someday it would spontaneously combust
from the intense heat of its own beauty.
And I was waiting,
ready to see at least one of us go out
in a supremely self-sufficient blaze of glory.
'Twas right there on page 433 in the Book of Lists
between the brain radiation levels of 60 celebrated persons
and a collection of 10 people who had stigmata
There it was in glorious black and white:
"Eight Cases of Spontaneous Combustion."
And while I realized I might never develop holy wounds on my hands and feet,
and the only person who knew how to measure brain radiation died in 1952,
deep inside I knew that some day,
with the flawless timing of a fine Swiss watch,
I had as good a chance as anybody to spontaneously combust.

Just like Euphemia Johnson, age 68,
who Spontaneously blazed one rainy day in England
while drinking her afternoon tea.
Or Mr. and Mrs. Patrick Rooney
who crossed over together
one Christmas Eve during the second chorus of "Silent Night"
when Mrs. Rooney suddenly turned into a pillar of fire
and Mr. Rooney died from the smoke in the air.
That one went deep.
Now I know when people say
"Do you love me?"
they really mean
"If I spontaneously combusted, would you inhale the smoke?"

But best by far,
Miss Phyllis Newcombe, age 22,
who probably spent 3 or 4 months perfecting a pink organdy gown
with pearl buttons,
a polka dot sash,
and baby blue lace at the collar and cuffs,
just to wear to the dance hall
that night on August the 7th
when she waltzed with the prettiest man there -
the one with the strongest arms
and the wisest eyes
and the prettiest white teeth.
The music was like satin and velvet;
like those luscious chocolate caramels
she once got for Valentine's Day.
She was so radiant.

Everyone was staring.
Even the people waltzing kept craning their necks to look at her.
Something was becoming more and more curiously alive about the room
It seemed the air itself was waltzing
It must have been on a 2 that Miss Newcombe smiled exquisitely
and happily burst into flames.

Neither Miss Newcombe's partner
nor the pink organdy gown
were so much as singed.
For a split second the gown hovered in mid-air
as if confused.
Then, with nothing left to cover,
it dropped delicately to the floor.
like a rose petal.

I like to imagine that Miss Newcombe's partner understood -
that he picked up the dress and quietly left the hall
while everyone else went crazy.

People and Christmas trees who spontaneously combust
go to a secret place
Where everything in switched on and awake.
Those little golden particles you see when you're exited
are constantly vibrating in the air.

Miss Newcombe had to combust.
She'd never be 22 again
in that gown
on that night
with that man
with those teeth.
Here, she moves in a state on constant consummation
with the dazzling uniqueness of an albino giraffe.
All the trees are Christmas trees
with silver garlands and sequins and those
electric glass oraments with bubbling water.
Every moment is always, always, always enough.
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