We never used our fireplaceuntil Hurricane Sandysnapped the power lines.

Heavy rain and windwhipped aroundour dark house

as the night grew colder.Our flashlights,the steamy breath of ghosts

in the dead of winter.My father’s matchstruck a stack

of miniature ebony logsand turned them alightlike the bright orange

wings of a monarch butterfly,the dark body of the roommade thicker.

Over the flame, we boiled waterand cooled it just long enough tosoak our feet—

calm ripples and soft circlingsoothing usas the night wind raged.

The house stayedblack, but I memorizedhow many steps

the stairway held,the exact height of each step.