When I was young I would always ask for fire
And think that blue flame tasted like hot freezie,
That it would burn my tongue cold.

Orange flame tasted like lightning syrup,
A spark on the roof of my mouth,
A glow worm and a scar.

I liked to watch flames move in my grandfather’s glasses
While he smoked and drank at the pit—
And me with the poker stick.

He told a story from his hunting days,
When my father was a boy my age
And he almost shot him by accident.