By Jennifer Lothrigel
Seered edges hardened by fire
make you break their barrier
with your tongue,
as you move into their sticky
At once marshmallow,
at once the blue flame it rested into
that made it hot,
also the patient hand at the end of the
It might also be the one who chopped the fire wood,
and his dried sweat
mixed with oak moss and bug shells,
even the acorn that dreamed big,
finding unexpected surrender
as it lay split open in the fire pit.
Jennifer Lothrigel is a poet and artist residing in the San Francisco Bay area. Her work has been published in Trivia: Voices of Feminism, Narrative Northeast, Poetry Quarterly, The Tishman Review, Cordella Magazine and elsewhere.