You come home today knowing how to make fire
with two sticks & a handful of grass for kindling.
Undressing for bed, I laugh as you explain how
the instructor told you to stroke the wood in light
quick circles until creamy white smoke drifted up,
telling you, I’m getting close, I’m getting close!
I have nothing to say. I stayed inside all day again,
arranging bundles of letters on a screen, stroking
the keys to strike some kind of signal like the one
you caressed into being, twisting the dry grass
into virgin bundles to sacrifice to the birth
of a flame that could, one day, save our lives
or end them, your fingertips ashy & very warm.
with two sticks & a handful of grass for kindling.
Undressing for bed, I laugh as you explain how
the instructor told you to stroke the wood in light
quick circles until creamy white smoke drifted up,
telling you, I’m getting close, I’m getting close!
I have nothing to say. I stayed inside all day again,
arranging bundles of letters on a screen, stroking
the keys to strike some kind of signal like the one
you caressed into being, twisting the dry grass
into virgin bundles to sacrifice to the birth
of a flame that could, one day, save our lives
or end them, your fingertips ashy & very warm.
Jessica Hudson is a graduate teaching assistant working on her Creative Writing MFA at Northern Michigan University. She is an associate editor for Passages North. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Pinch, Fractured Lit, and Dovecote, among others.