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.