Claimed by Fire
D.W. Baker
summersong
hatchet fall
dead wood
flicker tall
ghost light
scattershot
warm wind
yellow spot
smoke ring
ash cloud
everything
out loud
slow blink
earthbound
D.W. Baker
summersong
hatchet fall
dead wood
flicker tall
ghost light
scattershot
warm wind
yellow spot
smoke ring
ash cloud
everything
out loud
slow blink
earthbound
ISSN 2642-0104 (print)
ISSN 2641-7693 (online)
Founding Editor, Juliette Sebock
The God in the Hearth, Pushpanjali Kumari
Showy Yellow Flowers, Maggie Frank-Hsu
Visual Art
Fiery Times, Kaitlyn Demsey
Cover Image
Ember Garden, Carella Keil
In the leadup to bonfire, we shared a series of micropoems across social media:
Jennifer Skogen
It was a good memory: visiting Norway,
staying on a farm with my husband’s family,
eating waffles with cream and jam
cooked over a fire on the banks
of a fjord, like I’d stepped
into my own bloodstream and followed it
back in time to where my father’s family lived
years ago, one hundred years at least,
maybe more,
before I appeared on the long chain
of miracles that blood can perform:
love chasing us children down the years,
demanding we exist
despite distance
and time. Despite the great sea
that separated my mother’s ancestors
and my father’s.
It isn’t that I belonged to the cold
Nordic air that carried
sparks from the fire and held the perfect
scent of waffles overflowing the iron,
turning golden and decadent.
My last name couldn’t buy me passage
back to another life
any more than I could stop time
from sweeping me into another decade
past that memory on the beach,
with the grief and joy that rode
in the implacable current beside me.
All this to say
that I ate the waffle
they cooked for me,
jam dripping down my hands.
All this to say that we can live
through miracles.
Pushpanjali Kumari
You fail to notice the narrowing of the
Passing days until you find yourself at a
Shallow juncture of softening seasons,
Your body, deoxygenated,
Silently urges the fire in the hearth
To linger on like a ghost awaiting
A second death.
It is winter and you still carry the music of
Last summer’s hailstorm,
Its tune a rich hum in your ears.
The outline of your palm, aglow, waits
For its translucence to be rooted
To your memories of that distant
Storybook summer with its tales
Of djinns and draughts.
The embers show you the worlds
They ate up,
In dancing shadows
Of flickering moths and other hidden
Nocturnal,
This unfurling bloom of warmth
Reminds you of the hibiscus
And its fire-crowned pistil
You sucked dry of nectar,
Letting the small bead of stolen sweetness
Diffuse on your tongue.
How magical it is
To consider the possibility of anything
Disappearing in your mouth at all—
A taste, a texture, a truthiness
Of the god that exists within the things
That remind you of nothing but
The grace of tenderness.
Robert Okaji
The hill’s shoulders, slumped under the sky’s glare.
Hardscrabble and brown grass, insects chirring.
Voices in the still leaves.
I ask the boy if he would like water,
some bread. Fruit. No, he says, I must go.
The sun flares on the barn’s metal roof. A history
of stray thoughts, of complicity and calloused hands.
One tired cloud lingers overhead.
I sharpen my knives, think of cold beer.
Of finding home where no one knows me.
Where snow falls and wood burns cool.
And other incessant dreams.
Faith Allington
We met on Bonfire Night
before the seasons turned
too likely to ignite.
The stars were affixed
to the velvet dusk
while flames blossomed
on our cheeks.
Bright sparks of laughter,
the arc of your smile,
and dark rich scent of apples
rising from the cup.
We offered the fire
our twigs of hawthorn.
I thought we were gold,
even knowing Robert Frost’s
admonition—
nothing gold can last.
But in that night we remain
etched in firelight,
flickering selves that never
break or rust.
Maggie Frank-Hsu
Often hard or poor soil
is a fragile, complex mix.
a single season of flood
makes for wild
hurried blooming,
the rare chance
to be too much
before drying to stiff
bayonet-like leaves
that catch fire and burn easily;
a bell of sacred smoke
seen from a straight-back chair
beside the bay window
where nobody ever sat.
I have asked for so little, just
a drop in the dry season
to take hold on the soil surface.
In the leadup to our nineteenth issue bonfire, we shared a series of micropoems from our talented submitters:
Dear Reader,
Thank you for picking up our latest issue of Nightingale & Sparrow Literary Magazine! With summer heat surrounding us, and hints of autumn creeping in, we’re grateful to embrace this season’s theme, bonfire.
Whether through pop culture references or your own experiences, you surely have a fiery image come to mind when you hear this issue’s title. I know I certainly did! Unsurprisingly, our incredible contributors brought just this life, alongside so many nuanced interpretations of the theme.
For this theme, we gave submitters the following prompt: “The crackling wood and the warmth of the flames fill the night air. We sit around at the beach, or maybe the first football game of the season, watching the embers glow in the darkness as the flames lick the sky. Send us work that speaks to the primal allure of the bonfire or reflects on the tales passed down through this timeless gathering.”
From Mahaila Smith’s “Wildfire” and Emma Wells’s “ Autumn Camp” to Pushpanjali Kumari’s “The God in the Hearth” and Kaitlyn Dempsey’s “Fiery Times,” you’ll feel theflames and smell the smoke as you page through this issue.
As always, thank you to the N&S staff, submitters and contributors, readers, and other supporters who make this issue and all we do possible.
Take a seat around the bonfire, and enjoy.
Juliette Sebock
Editor-in-Chief, Nightingale & Sparrow
Mahaila Smith
People are setting fires because they’re frustrated, angry, hopeless. They have no power to improve their lives, but they have the power to make others even more miserable. And the only way to prove to yourself that you have power is to use it.
—Octavia E. Butler
All of your objects will outlive you.
Here they are:
haunting your line of sight.
So set them aflame.
As in:
The whole world will outlive you
As in:
You are a dying god.
As in:
Welcome to Ragnarök,
welcome to the burning of the world.
A layer of ash coats the sides of trees,
cars, sidewalks, schools, deer,
lungs, arteries.
It is a dry summer.
There have always been fires,
they say,
These are no different.
They start with a spark of static,
a misused chainsaw,
a lighter
a can of gasoline
a metal shovel striking a rock.
We stay inside for days.
The burnt wood floors
and walls and wires
desensitize our noses
to the smell of lilacs.