the warmth of burning
we need fire—
to shine a little brighter,
to feel a little warmer.
gathered for a friend’s birthday,
we each search for flame.
is there no match in the cake box?
does anyone have a lighter?
in the dictionary of fire,
there is no word for progress.
humanity evolved with fire,
but fire itself has never changed.
no one returns from being burned.
a witch is simply another word
for one who cannot come back.
still, we need fire.
we need something to burn.
why do we celebrate birthdays?
is it to snuff out electric light,
light candles,
& sing songs?
the first person to discover fire
stood before the vast, consuming blaze,
mouth agape,
terrified—
wondering if this inferno
could exist inside them.
they returned to their people,
mimicking the flames,
& were embraced gently.
the patterns of smoke
left their mark in fingerprints.
deer and the glass
on a clear day, in the biting cold,
from afar, the cry of a deer.
into the hollow of its antlers,
the cold seeps in.
unable to drive it away,
unable to welcome it,
the deer walks,
feeling the cold,
now one with its antlers.
sometimes, it cries as it walks,
though no one listens.
& if anyone might be listening,
it falls silent,
its untouched cry
still pure.
on a clear late-winter morning,
i opened the window,
& the chill touched my face.
even after the cold freezes & dies
inside the antlers,
the deer trembles still,
shaking its head,
its antlers swaying,
two arcs of quiet burden.
i, without antlers, cannot know
the cold they carry.
i walk,
the cold walking beside me,
tapping, tapping.
on the table,
a glass shivers at the flick of a nail,
its soft cry fading,
until it blends perfectly
into the stillness around it,
settling into silence.
Jennifer Choi is a passionate high school student. Her work has previously been published or is forthcoming in Altered Reality Magazine, Academy of Heart and Mind, and Culterate Magazine among others.
Chantarelle's Notebook 