Fire
We’re making toast over caverns of glowing coals
thickly sliced heaven at hell’s mouth in the
small black grate, suspended dangerously
from ancient unhygienic metal forks
our Sunday ritual in long-dead winter’s
afternoon.
Sharing this aphrodisiac long before
we knew the word, my father claims
a priestly role, presiding.
“Careful,” he says, “with butter, there’s
a war on.” We draw up chairs, closing
the warm circle and, leaning forward,
scorched faces eager, lust to taste our private
sacrament.
Outside at night the sky’s aflame:
fearfully incensed, hell’s rampant blazing
breaks far costlier bread.
Page(s) 68
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