Fire Tender
For years we had not named it
(for naming can consume
as well as illumine),
though we both knew.
But one night,
by the wild-haired fire,
as we toasted our legs and talked
of God and books and stories and teachers,
I said the word “outside.”
He, kneeling to adjust a log
(a skill he’s mastered),
said quietly, “That’s where I’ve lived my life.”
The fire shrugged two jagged shoulders,
then settled down and built itself a cave
to sing and shimmer in. He put aside the tongs.
And I said, “Yes.” What could I say
till things are different? And then we talked of God
and books and stories and teachers. And tender revolutions.
And pain. And love.