We would set the flame from the caved in face of the soiled matchbox held captive too long in the pockets of small boys
set alight the long grass by the side of the golf course or the wheat field behind my parents' house
turn our backs to see which one of the two of us would lose their courage first would have to turn, in an inferno of shouts and shared laughter to put it out before the adults came running in dumb delivery across the fields, bringing us their world.
Later on we left our homes, families, our country became estranged, then unknown to each other
eventually even his face started to change shape, dissolve
it was many years later still when I heard on the radio of the fire in that city that I have never been to in which I knew nobody that burnt though a school, a nightclub, factories, keep going in an unstoppable, untamed energy that for a moment bought him back, heatproof, immaculate.
~ by Alan Hill
Pandora's Collective: 5505 Main Street, Vancouver BC, Canada, V5W 2S3