The boy brought in the logs to start the fire.
A gust of night and nature blew in with him,
of animals out prowling in the dark.
His cheeks were bright with cold; his skin was white;
black hair hung low across a narrow forehead.
From my cold bed I watched him stack the logs
in a kind of pyramid, the small ones under,
the bigger ones on top, then saw him stick
chips of pitch pine among them, strike a match,
and light a sliver; and the room soon filled
with the resinous odour of ocote smoke.
Then he blew on the spark of fire he had created,
till the chips burned brightly, wrapping in their flame
the smaller logs, which in turn would ignite
the larger, to the largest one, on top.
And the room blossomed roses. All the while,
crouched at his task, he had not spoken, not looked at me,
but fixed his gaze on his logs with a concentrated
beetling frown, across which light and shadow played.
Now he got up, asked awkwardly if the fire
was satisfactory, and prepared to go.
And I answered yes, the fire was satisfactory
and no doubt would burn for at least two hours more,
time enough for me to fall asleep, while I thought
there was something much more satisfactory than fire
which would warm me even more. He left. I dozed.
Or perhaps I slept; the fact is, some hours later
— how many, I don't know — I heard, at least
it seemed I heard a sound, a hesitant tapping
at my door, and I rose in the fire's ambiguous light,
glided half-asleep over the hard, flat tiles,
opened the door effortlessly, as one does in dreams,
and the log-boy came in, cheeks bright red with cold.
There in the fire's dim glow I watched him undress,
saw the white body define itself from layers of dark clothing,
saw him stand, legs apart, in the rosy dying light,
black hair ingathering round an opening rose,
felt his icy skin, glabrous as myrtle bark,
as he slid into bed beside me. He was an expert
at lighting fires, but now it fell my turn
to stroke for the first time that cold virgin skin,
caressing rubbing it to raise a spark,
blowing on that spark to fan it to a flame,
wrapping him in my arms and legs to warm him,
playing each trick of friction, till at last,
like wood still green, he caught . . . The hard logs crumbled
to white ash; the last embers closed their eyes;
and in the darkness we were our own fire.
All night the log-boy tossed there in my arms
in intervals of sleep and waking dream,
all heat and flame now, in a bed as warm
as roses. Till I heard, just before morning,
another distant tapping at my door,
and the fire-boy noiselessly, as one does in dreams,
rose and in the white light of the false dawn
donned slowly his dark clothing, slid across
the smooth tiles to the door, opened it effortlessly
and was gone. And I lay asleep in the half-light.
The next night, after dinner, when the hour
for the guests to retire and the fires to be lit
arrived, I lay in bed, awaiting him,
but a gray-haired old man came to light my fire,
place the pine chips, build the log pyramid
in my cold chambers at the Meson Brujo.
A gust of night and nature blew in with him,
of animals out prowling in the dark.
His cheeks were bright with cold; his skin was white;
black hair hung low across a narrow forehead.
From my cold bed I watched him stack the logs
in a kind of pyramid, the small ones under,
the bigger ones on top, then saw him stick
chips of pitch pine among them, strike a match,
and light a sliver; and the room soon filled
with the resinous odour of ocote smoke.
Then he blew on the spark of fire he had created,
till the chips burned brightly, wrapping in their flame
the smaller logs, which in turn would ignite
the larger, to the largest one, on top.
And the room blossomed roses. All the while,
crouched at his task, he had not spoken, not looked at me,
but fixed his gaze on his logs with a concentrated
beetling frown, across which light and shadow played.
Now he got up, asked awkwardly if the fire
was satisfactory, and prepared to go.
And I answered yes, the fire was satisfactory
and no doubt would burn for at least two hours more,
time enough for me to fall asleep, while I thought
there was something much more satisfactory than fire
which would warm me even more. He left. I dozed.
Or perhaps I slept; the fact is, some hours later
— how many, I don't know — I heard, at least
it seemed I heard a sound, a hesitant tapping
at my door, and I rose in the fire's ambiguous light,
glided half-asleep over the hard, flat tiles,
opened the door effortlessly, as one does in dreams,
and the log-boy came in, cheeks bright red with cold.
There in the fire's dim glow I watched him undress,
saw the white body define itself from layers of dark clothing,
saw him stand, legs apart, in the rosy dying light,
black hair ingathering round an opening rose,
felt his icy skin, glabrous as myrtle bark,
as he slid into bed beside me. He was an expert
at lighting fires, but now it fell my turn
to stroke for the first time that cold virgin skin,
caressing rubbing it to raise a spark,
blowing on that spark to fan it to a flame,
wrapping him in my arms and legs to warm him,
playing each trick of friction, till at last,
like wood still green, he caught . . . The hard logs crumbled
to white ash; the last embers closed their eyes;
and in the darkness we were our own fire.
All night the log-boy tossed there in my arms
in intervals of sleep and waking dream,
all heat and flame now, in a bed as warm
as roses. Till I heard, just before morning,
another distant tapping at my door,
and the fire-boy noiselessly, as one does in dreams,
rose and in the white light of the false dawn
donned slowly his dark clothing, slid across
the smooth tiles to the door, opened it effortlessly
and was gone. And I lay asleep in the half-light.
The next night, after dinner, when the hour
for the guests to retire and the fires to be lit
arrived, I lay in bed, awaiting him,
but a gray-haired old man came to light my fire,
place the pine chips, build the log pyramid
in my cold chambers at the Meson Brujo.