Fire Father

He told me of the days of caves

and how, in his hot youth,
he’d forged a crater,
licked about the heels of St. Paul’s.

My mother did her quiet work at night.
She kept a vigil for the boats at sea
and sat with the wives, who prayed.

And when her strength was gone,
my father folded his flames about her corpse
for warmth.


Copyright © 2013, Hilary Hares