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FRANNY CHOI Pyrolysis
FRANNY CHOI
Pyrolysis
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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.
