Two teen sisters gab on a rural porch, dividing the world’s offerings

between them, as a younger brother stood behind with wooden matches. 

Strike. Burn. Tossed fire in a lush green valley in the 1930’s where

The air was moist but not moist enough to quench the thirst of girls in a rush

to cleave mother’s apron strings. Somewhere else they lamented, 

not here amid bushes of ripe raspberries speckled with ticks waiting

to draw their sweeter, pulsing pulp of life.

One sister brushed away a glow in her hair, kissed the burn to her hand.