Fire

My sweet daughters, both of fiery spirit

Like their mother, love to argue for argument’s sake.

They fly to flame. No, rather, they put bellows to cinder.

They can’t help themselves. In some places, it is unseemly.

Surprising.

Cruel even.

In our home it is high art.

We have, after all, been brought up to spar

as though lighting the warming evening fire–

All of us on our Irish side

On the historian’s side–

Valuing the slow burn of a perfectly

Wrought argument

As it throws sparks

Across the table at hapless

Guest, sibling or

parent

Igniting idea, conviction,

passion.