Firelight
Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
Choose a genuine response. Counts appear only after several readers agree.
Saturday starts with silence, slow and soft, sheets still warm from sleeping in.
It's not the presents. I know it's not the presents because the best Christmas I ever had was the year we couldn't afford them.
Home is not the address. It's the sound the lock makes when you've been gone too long.
The kettle hisses its slow complaint— ssssssss— like a secret it's been holding since last night.
Fire knows one thing: how to eat. It eats wood. It eats paper.
Her kitchen light stayed on until every child was home. Even after we had keys,
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