by Persis M. Karim
He remembers, as a boy,
the sweet smell of cedar burning,
smoke blocking out
ivory and black. Fire is not
hot, it’s the inside
turned out, shifting
hues that dance
from this lap and this, song
my favorite moon, idling
while his father picks the red guitar
whose light reflects
the blazing flame.
{ 0 comments… add one now }