off in the distance
someone is learning
to make fire.
it is a solitary engagement;
a silhouette bent
under the weight
of modern ineptitude.
I watch them in the fading light;
here, fodder added to fuel
the flame; there, warm breath
blown upon an ember
which refuses to die.
in the space it takes to blink –
in the void between what you said
and what you meant;
the kindling becomes a conflagration.
I see you there
standing in the glow of the pyre
you built from washed-up detritus;
flotsam, jetsam, driftwood;
I do not need to speak
the language of mourning
to understand
that silver speech
slipping not from your lips
nor through your teeth;
or the way I can hear
your heart beating
in its cage;
or how you howl
in the shadow of the moonlight
and crane your head up
to the sky; now and forever
stained with the blood
of the savage stars.
Caitlin Cacciatore (she/hers) is a queer writer and poet who lives on the outskirts of New York City. She believes poetry has the power to create change and brighten lives, and wishes for her work to be an agent of forward motion. She won first prize in Bacopa Literary Review 2020 for poetry. You can find her at caitlincacciatore.wordpress.com
