by Deborah Digges

    My life's calling， setting fires.

    Here in a hearth¹ so huge

    I can stand inside and shove

    the wood around with my

    bare hands while church bells

    deal the hours down through

    the chimney. No more

    woodcutter， creel for the fire

    or architect， the five staves

    pitched like rifles over stone.

    But to be mistro-elemental.

    The flute² of clay playing

    my breath that riles the flames，

    the fire risen to such dreaming

    sung once from landlords' attics³.

    Sung once the broken lyres，

    seasoned and green.

    Even the few things I might save，

    my mother's letters，

    locks of my children's hair

    here handed over like the keys

    to a foreclosure， my robes

    remanded， and furniture

    dragged out into the yard，

    my bedsheets hoisted⁴ up the pine，

    whereby the house sets sail.

    And I am standing⁵ on a cliff

    above the sea， a paper light，

    a lantern. No longer mine

    to count the wrecks⁶.

    Who rode the ships in ringing，

    marrying rock the waters

    storm to break the door，

    looked through the fire， beheld⁷

    a clearing there. This is what

    you are. What you've come to

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