as members of the same tribe,
in the kitchen making small talk.
There's a strange underlying discrepancy
because
somewhere along the line
while sitting next to a fire
your great great great great grandfather
decided he didn't like my great great great great grandfather
(or maybe it was the other way around)
because one had more sheep
or one had more women
or one's skin started to darken
or one found the promised land first
or one faced the correct way while praying
or one had a better seat on the heaven bound train
such a shame these men
because their make-believe rituals don't matter now
my fire is still your fire
my tree is still your tree
my air is still your air
and we all mourn the same.
This is in response to this week's idea of making fire over at We Write Poems.
