Issue 2:
Fire
John Bush
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To Build a Fire
We’d pretend the year,
maybe 1871, 1915, 1965
now
when we would interrupt the world and camp in our living room.
A sheet would serve
to keep in and to keep out,
except you.
You would squeal as I reached into the deep closet
where crouched faces waited
where lions, tigers, and panthers stalked
where fierce monkeys with yellow eyes preyed on little girls and boys
and where, of course, we kept our foam pillows and sheets.
Then,
You would gather your gear:
pooh books
stuffed rabbit
shoes and a cap --
I would cover three chairs with the sheet
and ready a glow in the dark moon that doesn't work,
except in our case,
At sunset, the close of the tent, I would shut out the world
here
and open one up
there
and the
carpet, sheet, plastic moon, and three chairs became
in a moment
our cold, snowy world on the Alaskan tundra
under the supreme moon.
You would sit crosslegged under our tightly pulled tent
stare at our moon,
cock your head
and listen earnestly to the lament of the wolves and wind.
We warmed ourselves skin against skin.
Then,
suddenly
a conflict with nature.
In the blizzard
outside
a polar bear growls intermittently feeding on warm meat,
as the blizzard rumbles across the tundra.
And when the teeth of the bear gnashes,
you protect me by hugging me tightly
your wide eyes staring up at mine
your lips pursed.
You question the sounds.
Then your boldness catches.
You crawl eagerly outside into the razor cold
to investigate, to conquer.
You adventure.
But you come back, your reliable face
offering warmth once again
with your skin.
I can rest with you, now, and dream, with you,
again again, until you are educated into adulthood
and really need to build a fire.
~John Bush
John lives in Georgia, where he teaches English and debate. He's compiling his first poetry collection. Email.
© 1999 by John Bush. All Rights Reserved.
© 2000-2002 by Cayuse Press. All Rights Reserved.
This page updated April 23, 2002.