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.