The Pull

My father at the kitchen table:

his zippo lighter disassembled

before him.

A yellow and blue can of Ronsonol

lighter fluid flipped open.

And then the oily scent

as he soaks the felt pad

and pushes it back into place.

His large hands negotiate

the tiny brown flint, small as rice.

And all the pieces

he fits back together,

slides into the outer case.

That familiar click of its hinge:

the sound of my childhood.

He scrapes his thumb

over the flint wheel

and it works on just one try.

Not the empty click, click,

click like before.

The lighter fluid,

spilled on the case, flames

(too near the cuff

of his flannel shirt I warn him!)

but he tilts his hand,

and rolls his wrist,

burning off the oil

until the metal gleams,

silver and clean,

and all that remains

is the single necessary flame.

He grins at me

and I at him.

Or maybe his grin is not for me, at all

but for his love

of this liturgy of lighters,

and the awaiting thrill

of the pull

of his next cigarette.

Kate Young Wilder