“Fire Pit”

by Matthew Green

The flames crackle the kindling
And it sounds like you’d expect
If I sit too close
My jeans feel like heat packs
Amid the darkness
Faces glow, ethereal
Like ghosts come to mingle
In handed down camping chairs
And what is spoken is heard
We are heard
It’s sacred almost
This place of damp grass
And tomorrow ash

Matthew Green's poems have appeared in Sledgehammer, and CP Quarterly, among others. He lives in the northern suburbs of Brisbane, Australia. See more on Twitter @matthew_green98.