There’s a backstory to this poem.  Don Graves (a leader in the teaching of writing) lived pretty close to me in Durham, NH. When he and his wife moved from their home in Durham Don offered me some firewood, and I was happy to take it. When I burned it in my wood stove I found it to be exceptionally dry. That firewood burned without any smoke, and I used that detail in this poem.

Playing With Fire

You said you

loved me

that afternoon

behind the woodpile

but when your father

collapsed at work

and died

without a hint

without a goodbye

your face turned

all blurry gray

and I knew enough

to stay away.

All winter your ma

burned the wood

he had stacked in

in the garage

to keep you warm

the wood so dry

it burned without smoke

until all the wood was gone.

You said you

loved me

but when

I saw your face

I understood

we were just

playing

  with that word. 

        from I Am Wings: Poems About Love