Arsonist and Fireman
Chase Twichell It was the hot orange edge,
the flame biting and tearing its way
out of the field--that's what I loved.
I looked up the word 'loins' in the dictionary,
and lit the dry grass with its meaning. Put that memory away now. Its magnet
is weak after all these years. It's time to stop.
He's dead, long dead, dead for years.
Let his sad soul go off by itself.
Let it rest for a while in the scorched grass.
Ontario Review #45 | 
