Smoke Hole

a see you later

I’ve felt the overflow of poetry rising in me, but an equal need to hold on to most of it before bringing it out through the usual apertures. So, until there’s a change in the wind, or until the smoke becomes unbearable, I’ll be on retreat.

Smoke Hole

Sealing the smoke hole, 
I deny myself the upward outlet. 

No more acclimations 
in black and white. 

I sit before the hearth, goading 
embers into a deeper red. 

They flare up. I inhale their scent. 
I’m alone – a storyteller, a fire-breather. 

My nostrils burn with words. 
I take my flint knife to the skin tent

cut a new way out. 
The world is bright. The air, clear. 

Alone, I begin to breathe again.