“Kawasaki”
they called it:

recognizable partly
by strawberry tongue -

a poetic name
for a terrible symptom.

Imagine

skin that roses,
wheals, and
swells

coalescing

before peeling away
in impressive sheets
like parchment

febrile

for long days made longer
by the fussing
of a worried mother.

Imagine

raging

so hot and incandescent
that your heart
explodes.

will
i ever
learn
to be

someone

who doesn't
cringe at
formalities

someone

who relaxes
in mixed
company

someone

who admits
to needing
someone

or
will i
always
be

wooden --

the word
he likes
to claim
for me

early in
the morning
on a
sunday

when he
is tired
drunk and
angry

("Ladders
lead to
ice, not
fire."

i
know
the
allusion.

i
sympathize
with the
frustration.)

wanting
more than
I can
give

and not
understanding
that I
can't live

with less.

not knowing
that he
could not
survive

with more.

unaware
that i
buffer
my flames

with distance

so he
won't
get
burned.