Make Me a Fire, She Said

so I prop the wood stove door

with a fire iron rack,

lay the largest log on the grate,

crisscross hand-hewn saplings

windfall branches, stems, twigs,

build a tower balanced by touch,

light a wax pillow, place it on top,

magnets surge the door shut,

timid, newborn flames peek out, perk up

then widen, fat, heavy ooze slithering

over slivers and sticks, slow-licking

white wood red—by the time she calls,

Supper’s ready—the log is panting,

flames fingertip along the bark, I crack

the door, stand two fresh logs waist deep

in fire, they lean on each other and burn—

we pull our chairs close and watch and eat.