A Tale Told for Centuries

Over eggs, he hands me a photofrom when we were children.

I can still hear the whisperof water running past us.

We spent that whole morningon the muddy banks searching

for salamanders. A band of slick,slender bodies the color of curry;

rusted fenders; a patch of pumpkinsready for the fall. They say you needa lot of patience to catch salamanders.

If you go in reckless, they’ll sense it;sliding into stream without hesitation.

You can’t tell the forest was beginningto burn yet in the photo. We’re squatting

by the bank, sun hot on our faces.Each of us has a salamander in hand.

I still remember the taste and textureof ash in air dissolving on my tongue.

I still see flakes coating evergreen coniferslike falling snow. When wildfire spreadsacross a canopy, they call it a crown.

They say salamanders first came from flame.A tale told for centuries when they were seenin firepits rising from rotted logs, unharmed.

I don’t remember being afraid; the forest rangershelping us pack up the truck; that hurried drivedown the canyon backroads for the very last time.

But even now, I can feel the half-flooded stonemy foot slipped on when I flew into the stream.

I feel the phantom sting in my kneeas I caught something coarse in the fall.

I feel the chill of water flooding over me;streaks of red spread out across the current.

When does a memory become a myth?When does a house become a home?

When does a house become a myth?When does a myth become a home?