Bonfire

by Jessica Traynor

November slips into December
like cold air down my throat.

I catch my crow’s feet
in the mirror and swallow

the shock of years vanishing —
the thought of you

as a grandmother is something
I have stolen, something

my child in turn might steal.
We are thinning you out.

I want to give you back those years:
I’ll find them stuffed in the pockets

of my warm winter coat,
dry as leaves piled for a bonfire.

Stand with me and we’ll cast them
on the flames, watch them

curling as they burn,
floating on the frosted air.