The boy who spat fire

 her kitchen was haunted you see
and at some point she didn't see her favorite child in me
I would look up next to the firewood basket
Such a distance such a well contained emptiness

at her picture of the boy blowing flames out of his mouth
Into the unknown
Into the space of void
Into the oven underneath

For all the quirks and ghosts it was the fire
unanchored spirits that tickled the late afternoon
and frosted the wee hours with snapping approaches
Her smile still warmed me as foreign as it was

whether the curse was seen on me
The patch of skin destined for ink or a scar
Her finger might point out from the afterlife
back to that painting she did

Of me blowing fire out of the void
A meal of gasoline burning the years
pure destruction the aroma and order of it
The eternal graceful gymnastics of it