A Girl and Her Fireplace

Megan Denton

Born on a new moon, one minute after my sister

and one pound less, my ribcage was full

of roosting songbirds and hers a steady drum,

and when all three pounds of me came earthside I heard God say,

everyone you love lives here. It was a Tuesday, past

the spun-sugar pink of morning, past the betwixt place, past high tea

and two handfuls of good soil. There was no laying on

of hands. I was let loose in a world too cruel for me, emptying

my new box of crayons onto the floor, in search of the perfect color

to draw the sky. Wee unchurched mountain girl,

planting jelly beans in the forest and hoping for magic stems.

At thirty-four and many years sick, sometimes I still think

of all the people throwing coins into fountains. I thank

every tipped domino that led me here: my first winter

completely alone, save for the glowworm orange

of my hearth. I admit at first I was terrified. I admit I sit

a little too close. Forgive me. I am at the doorway

of the firebox, feeding all my prayers to the flame.