Issue 4 - Vivian Faith Prescott

Packing Wood for a Winter Fire

My pregnant belly leans against the woodpile.

            Within me, my son kicks cradled wood.

            The bundle topples, leaving splinters

in my purple knitted mittens. My splitting maul

            strikes block, hitting wedge—steel to steel—

            I breathe in whorled seasons

as ice shards shatter like breaking china.

            With each swing and crack, he jumps;

            a movement long past his quickening.

Indoors, the white-hot stove revels in yellow-cedar

            sap dripping onto coals.

            I scoot my rocking chair nearer,

soothed by hissing ice atop the black iron stove.

            I lift my shirt to massage my belly,

            drawing soot blackened shapes to skip

in the flush of firelight, silhouettes atop pavilion

            walls, knowing soon he'll leave

            this body-refuge, capturing traces of me—

the snap of a winter fire and my mother-scent of cedar.

--Vivian Faith Prescott

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