the things we burn

you say we are descended
from giants,
but i

am more impressed
by the tenacity
of acorns,

how they worm
their way into the wet
fall ground. inside

their porcupined-cap heads
they are oaks already, & we
mere children

playing in the dirt, watching
sparks curl round the thread-
bare dark. their every breath

threatens to catch the night on fire,
and my eyelashes are singed
with soot-stained doubting.

these are the things we burn;
with smoke in my hair,
will you love me still?