Vievee Francis

Bless the Kindling World

Bless the kindling world
that straps its children
into armor then sets a wick
beneath their feet.
They splinter. How we splinter
them. Limbs stacked and spilling
into dump-yards, into graves,
into glutted rivers of amber.
Bless children raised to be felled.
We drain the tears from their ducts,
shake down the fat from their bones
until light as brushwood, they rise
like sparks that flicker briefly
then sputter to their end.
Bless the tinder world,
a victory garden of sticks
we cull to feed our flame,
of stones we keep at hand.


Vievee Francis