The kindling burns, folds in upon itself
turns to ash as fire grabs and sucks
eating, flicking its tongue for more
my son’s brain tumor information burning
the paper begins to melt, turning black
along the edges.
every night in this house with stacks of wood
and snow falling, every other day more snow
the ritual: get wine, pour a glass
make fire (I become an expert)
feed it the rolled-up magazines,
receipts from Sloan-Kettering crumpled and tossed
every night, the wind blows in this house
with no insulation.
Wood glows with fire’s life, pulsing
until it too turns to dust.