Fires

by Benjamin Grossman

burned before there were gods to steal from; before hell was under the sun; before desire was a synonym for flames; and even before dragons captured damsels. Perhaps these contained infernos began amongst an orgy of stones by humping sticks or crisscrossing tinder. Or perhaps they began in the eyes, watching the setting of yellow, volcanoes burning through stability, silence caused by lava. Though maybe fire’s origins date back to the mysteries of nowhere, an explosion in need of celebration: rescuing skin from goosebumps, expanding days into nights, chances to name stars, milk animals, forge crowns. Although fire arose far from castles, chimneys, and fireplaces, it evolved alongside of man: words whispered around flames; feasts igniting myths; beasts roasted over condensed warmth. Vocabulary stretched upward, rising beside smoke: smoldered, charred, burnt. Black fire became, origami of heat folded into desolation, consuming books, bridges, brooms, bras, babies. We will toss in anything to preserve a blaze, almost like we are unaware that all these fires are cold.