Fire Gazing

Fire knows me well.

It tempts me to make it

on a fertile matchstick and bear it

in a white papered wastebasket.

It spreads. I freeze.

I watch family heirlooms burn.

I stare, transfixed, wanting to crawl inside

to look outward and see

what is sees: my baby

sister in the crib, her pink

pajama slippered feet poking through the bars.

Mother lulls awake in clouds of smoke and runs

like a knife dulled down

trailing in the thick.

I barely remember the sound of sirens

or air so crisp I choke.

Mom stands at the curb

cradling the smoky baby in her arms.

I slouch beside her listening

to the crackle of dying flames.

She does not hold my hand

in the warmness of her palm

or press my head against her heart.