Alex takes me to the beach on Tuesday
to learn how to spin poi
and dance with fire.

 

As the sun sets and the shadows get long,
my hands shake and I burn myself,
but so does he.
Alex tamps his shirt out in the sand
and picks his torch back up.
My plaintive hand stings and aches,
so I step away from the fire-lit circle
and sit by the surf with the children
where we spin stories
in burning paraffin’s stead.

 

I tell of a wanderer
who presses colors and stories into his skin
and can never keep a thought in his head.

 

The children ask for more,
so I tell them everything I know:
he travels in dreams,
everyone knows him, somehow,
and he leashes fire and love fearlessly.
As I stare into the ink sea,
Alex twists flames in the air.