The best fire we had in those days was the night
at Jake and Donna’s place. It was bitter
cold but we built the bonfire up high, then higher.
Jake was a little drunk when he came laughing
mostly falling down the stairs of the deck
with the Papasan chair from their living room.
Let’s burn it, Jake roared, and we roared back
with the flames when he threw it on and raised
a three-story column of wild, perishing ash
against the darkness still expanding
between the flares of diminishing stars.
I always hated that chair Jake announced
as we laughed with relish, in disbelief
as Donna nodded, for once agreed.
Everyone stood up and backed away a bit
and in the multiplying heat, we began to see
what he’d done, what he’d started. It turned out
there were other things in the house Jake hated
so he became his own parade and we the town
that cheered him on. Letters he found and a half-
finished painting. There were books that no longer
worked for him, then the wobbly bookcase tumbled in.
The more he found to burn, the better our fire
seemed to like it and lick its quickening lips.
What I remember most is the goodness of our faces
together, even in that uneven light, once more
before our bonds and vows began to vanish
between us, smoke against a darkened sky. And
the guitar. I hear its last soft sounds the fire played
as each taut string unmoored from its burning bridge.