The flame, plume of tortured wood-gas,
whips his frenzy against the air
Coming and going, like never, like always,
always in transit, never the same

No two fires are alike.
I had to work to make this one burn.
The wood was too large, too damp, too chilled.
I piled on twigs and blew like a madwoman,
facing the fire, firing my face,
willing him up to sustainable heat.
Now, a child I made, he cries for food
even as he warms me.

(First published in Pixel Papers)

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