 She left me with this, she left me with this, a rippled Afghan mismatched colors fighting, row upon row neon green against sharp industrial orange against hot pink against electric blue against dull mustard against white dingy from wear. She made it to replace one more perfect with coordinated colors that I'd used to cover a boy laid out on asphalt next to his motorcycle engine whining wheels spinning pulling blood around his head. She made one Afghan for each child and grandchild. Needless cotton rows she hold to earn enough for the small portion of fried potatoes and biscuits on our plate. She crocheted this one colors loud and uncoordinated like jazz, like life using scrap yarn left over for many other things she made. I hid it in the back of the closet after she left. After she died I found it again. I wrapped those warring blues, greens, mustards, oranges, pinks, rippled waves of color around me. I grieved. And this? Fire. Fire dances laser red, smoke roars, floats on ravenous winds, curling flame, pull near. I've danced with fire, flickering fingers, bathed mean melting, fears, burning, inhibitions purifying, sins evaporating, tears. Thank you.