FRANNY CHOI
Pyrolysis The first step to building a fire is balancing. Birch bark. Cedar. Pyramid of twigs. Dry leaves are mostly a distraction—quick to disappear alone, into ash, lighting nothing. I crouch, cough, blow one teaspoon of air at a time. I resist celebrating until I’m sure it won’t go out. Fret when he tosses on the logs too soon. I’m more careful now. I feed the fire in bare handfuls, a slow meal: tinder, kindling, softwood, hard. I’m sorry I didn’t learn to be patient until after I’d lost you. Now I name mouthfuls of smoke for every boy who swilled my absence until it hardened to coal. Now I shape my palms to a new jaw, marvel at its weight. And you keep doing what smoke does when it leaves the treeline. Lighting nothing. Losing its name. Until even the sky forgets.
2 | Raleigh Review
