Bonfire and Big Waters

Tiptop of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula 
the Straits of Mackinac churn like logs 
 
while bonfire writes stories
against a lowering sky. My little family 
 
circling the flames. Steven, life-love and father 
to Celia, daughter with lake water for eyes. 
 
And there’s David, Celia’s boyfriend. Both young
20s listing into forever, whispering Love
 
yous when they think I can’t hear. 
Between bonfire and big waters, blaze-light 
 
reflects baby skin and cheeks round 
as cherries. This is good
 
says Celia, turning toward the glow. Careful
I almost say. Fire is ravenous. 
 
Shine entices, which is fine 
but don’t rush tumbling into that burn. 
 
I pin my mouth, swallowing till my chest aches.
Check out the moon, says Celia as it dangles
 
over the Straits like a silver locket. We need
a long exposure to capture it, says David
 
running for his camera in our borrowed cottage.
Celia follows, leaving me 
 
with Steven stirring the fire. Hardcore
night arrives to cover us like it would
 
a birdcage. Overhead a billion pinpricks
wink like lunatics. Come morning we’ll trip
 
downstate to Detroit, dropping David                                            
and Celia at their place on the way. Not far                                    
 
from home. Not really. Nearby                                                                  
some stupid insect chirrups 
 
a mating prayer. Steven drags his chair
closer to mine. For warmth, he says
 
as fire snaps its heels. Beyond that, 
the Straits go on fretting at the shoreline.
 
Out of bounds, out of time.