eco log

in the last weeks of winter 
i couldn't get myself to light
the fire anymore. i bought eco logs
& cut them into little medallions.
lived by their urgent flames. the ghost
who warmed our house begged me
to let him rest. i pointed out the window
to the grey sky & the whales in the clouds.
i said, "not yet." i do not know
what the eco logs are made of. they are
only fragments of trees. they know nothing
about being a limb. about reaching
for a handful of light. i made all kinds
of promises to the spirits. 
"when it is bright outside... when it
no longer hurts my bones to swallow
the air... when the birds start rolling 
their eggs like bingo balls... then 
maybe i can feed you my hands. then maybe
everything will be easy again."
the logs were made in a factory. 
an assembly line knit them & then
they arrived to me through a series
of forgivable violences. the fire asked me
over & over, "will you tell me a story?"
i had run out. i have run out 
for awhile now. i always tried though.
told the flames about a cousin who
i never met who my aunts said was trans too.
i always wondered what we might
be able to talk about. if the rain
had enough legs to get us home.
when the fire would go out, i would 
try not to weep. instead, i would return
to the eco logs & the little purple lighter.
flick it until it sang. i hummed with it.
like all pennsylvania winters, winter broke
far too late. there are still ashes 
in the wood stove. i like to imagine
they are soft & that the ghost sleeps there.