Till age twelve, I fear
fire like a bear come
from the trees to maul me. I shy
away from patchouli incense
left smoldering by my hippy mother,
yahrzeit candles Bubby and Zaidy
burn for their dead.

Till Bubby huffs in frustration, Don’t hate
the beast for its nature, and passes
me a matchbox—her twisted
brown hand to my round white one.
I remove a single twig, pinch it
between thumb and pointer finger
like it might ignite by its own desire.
I flick the red head
against countertop as I’ve seen Bubby
do a thousand times (even with arthritis
she’s quicker than me).

Three strikes it takes for my spark
to catch. Then the magic trick
of combustion—sudden hiss
where I manage, just, not to drop
the match. In a flash, flame rises
on hind legs, then settles
to its haunches, watching me.
Orange as a ginger cat, crimson
like my mother’s new Vega.

Are you afraid
still of such a nincompoop? Bubby asks
of my thimble-sized blaze. I shake
my frizzy head. Now blow it out,
she says, and I do
before it bites my skin.

But later, while she and Zaidy dream
in their too-cold bedroom, I slow-
tiptoe downstairs and light match
after match till I feel sure. Till fire
comes when I call
and leaves without a single snarl
when I finally send it home.