You put your back to it. The thwack of metal ringing
in the clear September air against the thrumming of mosquitoes.
The blade so dull, you had to straddle like a horse the logs we gathered,
find exactly the right angle. I put the sticks in a ring under the rusted grill,
the starter in the center, the larger pieces stacked on either side to make a kind
of limit. I watched the smolder, the thinnest as they kindled after
rains had dampened purpose. Throughout the night we talked.
I listened to your reasons. You wanted conflagration. Heat that burns.
I wished a slow fire lasting long into the night. The spirit in the smoke.
Nothing left but ashes in the morning.
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