Body Interred With Fire-Making Tools: Poetry

Sarah Sousa 

Flint and dry tinder,

a narrow bone tube to focus

 

the lungs’ bellows on a single

spark, to magnify the breath in flame,

 

watch it lick the air, lap oxygen,

spread. Even in that mouthless

 

cave where nothing breathes,

a man might wake and crave

 

light, the companionship of shapes

on close walls. That the other

 

side may be womb-dark, a world in need

of creating. That Man necessitates God, splits

 

to play both roles, again

inventing fire. Inventing the means

 

for his survival

and his survival.

One thought on “Body Interred With Fire-Making Tools: Poetry

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