May the bridges I burn light the way,
said that late 80s sage, Dylan McKay.
It took me a while, but I’ve come to see
it’s not just ironic, but true.
The flames of your past illuminating what lies ahead–
it’s the flip side of leaving a room like General Sherman,
or Scipio, even, burning and salting because after a fight,
you might as well make damn well sure that it’s done.
Over. No more chance of rising to haunt you,
to try to drag you under with memories of when you
used to be able to stand one another. Before.
They don’t want to parry, negotiate peace, even consider
some terms of surrender?
Burn it all. Let it light up the night,
and ride your horse into the dawn.
Don’t look back– just let the salt leak out of the saddlebags you’ve
stolen and slashed, let to drift on your path out,
a reverse cookie crumb trail.
No witch with an oven at the end of this trail,
no more fattening period, no waiting,
All you really need are waterproof matches,
some razer-sharp wit to discern the next
impending disaster, that and a heart that’s dry,
ready to kindle again.