Ricked splits of maple, alder, fir—
cross-stacked against damp—
wait so long, a blue mold
rinds the wood,
shed of its bark
and soaked through.
Once in the stove,
cold and wet as thawed,
coarse-cut meat,
these pieces are reluctant
to let go the heat
at their hearts.
To coax flame
from their locked rooms,
feign ignorance of fire’s cunning,
and how its many tongues
yearn most
to devour our names.
Published in the 2010-03-26 issue: View Contents
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