I've been smoldering

since the flint was struck.

In the bellows, caged only by my ribs,

enough hot, dry, salted air

to stroke the tinder with every breath.

Softwood amongst the dry grass,

I was kindling.

They kept trying to smother me,

kicking dirt,

throwing their solo cups full of

boxed wine,

all over my intention,

aiming to ***** out every ember.

So I picked the heads of dandelions,

laid down among the cattail leaves,

wrapped in poplar cotton,

and magnified the birch of my bones,

begging for a flame

that refused to come.

I tore the words from sodden

paper promises,

tied them with the ragged hem

of my once white dress,

blistered my hands with the bow drill

until I found the spark.

You'll try to say you were my kerosene,

but the pines know I was enough fuel.

You can't see the forest now,

for all the char;

the ash laughs along with my fire,

wild and free.