Fire

1
I remember the lighter, clear plastic—
yellow, and the area rug, blue and green
itchy spirals, no good for sprawling over for cartoons,
only good for the redness of carpet burns,
the shaved skin not showing
the wound until later in the day.

No one was home. Maple leaf shadows etched
the side of the garage. A golden ashtray lay
filled with cigar butts like a bowl of turds. The cat
scratched my arm. The lighter was next to the ashtray.
Pretty lighter. My small thumb
rolled against the flame starter. At eight,
I had never felt such power.
The orange beckoned
like a forefinger saying, “Come here.”
I singed the carpet. Only a few black specks at first,
but synthetic fiber melts fast,
brown liquid, as dark as my parents’ black coffee.
The flame stain grew. I ran for a wet towel,
then left it there to cover the spot, rolled
a footstool over the towel.

2
Back when we still burned garbage
in the back of the garage, I loved that barrel.
A path next to the giant white hostas
led to the rusty basin of ash.
I wanted to take out that trash. Wanted to poke
papers with a stick. Wanted to smell smoke
and watch ash rise higher and higher
into sky like single wings
of the mourning dove.

3
Cigarettes, no.
Even so, at 18, I wanted
to be like my big sisters. The red
of their lipstick tattooing filter tips. The romance of brand names:
Virginia Slims, Newport Lights, Benson and Hedges 100s.
But that white cylinder
felt as foreign as a sixth pinkie.
As I bounced the Buick
over railroad tracks,
ash raked my blouse
leaving tiny bullet holes
in gauze.

4
Now, a fireplace is the centerpiece of my house.
Flames massage the dark curtain of space
as you lie on your stomach, outline of rear
clear in faded jeans, to check
the possibility of fixing
loose brick. I think about pressing
my body against your back—
strong spine fine tuning the line
that separates breasts.
But this connection
is a slow burn. A bouquet of restraint.
A building of something heavier than brick.
Flames make words
obsolete as heat kisses
each cell of our skins.

Anne Davidovicz pets cats, plants flowers, writes poetry, and teaches classes at Harper College in Palatine. She received her MFA from the University of Oregon and studied with Diane Wakoski while receiving her BA at MSU.