That trick we learned in late
childhood from a dare or taunt: to pass
a finger quickly across a spurt of flame,
lighter uncapped or taper lit— Enough
to feel the singe but not the burn. Next,
thin parchment rolled and tamped and passed
from hand to hand, communal draught
of dry ash, duff inhaled: one of us said,
It’s just like inhaling paper! —some kind
of picturesque notion in her head of how the leaf
now lived or moved inside, its spirit curling
around our heads like wreath or wraith,
bequeathing secret visions to new
acolytes, sophisticates.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
OTHER POSTS IN THE SERIES
- Triolet: Epistemology of the Bees
- Restless
- Appropriate
- Inhabit
- Fine Print
- Give thanks for the weight
- Lengthen
- Libretto
- Smoke
- What’s Written is Not Always What’s Heard
- Tendril
- The days, sharp-finned, they plane
- Selling the Family Home
- Elegy, with lines from e.e. cummings
- Letter to Audrey Hepburn
- Disintegrate
- Stage Directions
- Monsoon
- Dear spurred and caruncled one in the grass,
- Dear one, anxious again about arrival—
- Epistle of the bird
- Prayer for Wings
- Evidence
- Small birds fly past,
- Why it’s OK to live a little
- Instruct, recall
- Winter Song
- Wintering
Love this. Great alliteration and rhythm.