The Death of the Campfire (early draft)

last nite

We stomp through the dark field, laughing nervously, batting off grass,
shielding our eyes from the white severity of the lantern light,
the moon astride the sky in great orange glory,
dressed and draped in cloud sashes,
we travel away from the lamplit street,
the condos, the sleeping driveways,
the brown beetles drowning on their backs at the bases of the streetlights.

The woods were even darker; we fumbled
along a pre-cut trail for several nervous minutes, the lantern
cutting zigzag patterns into the woodland density as it moved
from hand to hand, still hurting our eyes, all of us in a line,
are we lost? Where are we going? I think it's over here.
We are in high and nervous spirits. Someone declares authority,
clears the dust, "this way, let's go." The line shuffles backwards,
still glimmering with nervous babble, as we walk with purpose.
Each of us can barely make out the ghostly outline
of the next person. What a flavor the air has, the crisp tang
of uncertainty, of being in the woods without enough light.

So the cell phones come on. And he leads us industriously
to what turns out to be the right place,
a better fire pit than the one we'd been looking for before,
bigger, with a well constructed set of sitting stones
the perfect size for our group. And then,
Emily pulls out an artificial log, tells us it's supposed to last
for three hours. Marilyn nestles it among the preassembled timber
and lights each side with a lighter.
The log slowly surrenders itself to the licking flames and soon
the hot sporadicity of firelight replaces the searing white of the
electric lantern, although
we still use the lantern when we gather sticks for marshmallows.

Then the wave of cameras. For a while no one looks at each other
except through LCD screens, hungrily obeying the invective
to document the dark woods and flickering light and community.
Paul prods the fire, tosses a twig on it, some paper;
nothing happens. He laughs and sits back down.
Lucy's phone rings. I'm pretty good, she says, sitting around
a campfire, actually. After about five minutes of talking
she heads off on her own to talk privately, for at least half an hour.

What happens that night? We swat off mosquitoes and stuff ourselves
with marshmallow. Another group joins us, bringing booze.
What happens? The branches of the night air heavy with
the fruits of invisible possibility, swollen with ripeness.
What do we say that night? Ghost stories are
too frightening here. We do not impose on ourselves any structured interaction;
no Tell us something you've never told anyone, nothing stupid like that,
as we sit tacit witness to your nakedness, all of our faces orange and strange
in the intoxicating demon firelight, and tomorrow
when we see each other at breakfast over the clatter of utensils,
it will be different after this strange primal night. No,
We do not heed the beckoning fire. We say
what we might normally say. Paul and Molly
discreetly disappear and return after a few minutes.
The marshmallow bags slowly empty themselves. We laugh,
talk, feel comfortable.

Most of us do not wait for the fire to die
before we leave. Instead we stand up with Maggie,
all professing that good times were had,
and retreat through the woods, lit now only by our cell phones.
We find a path much shorter and less treacherous than the one
we took coming in. The marshmallows weigh heavy
in my gut. I feel like throwing up. Back in the field,
the moon is smaller and unadorned. We did it. We had
a campfire. I feel bad,
like after bad sex,
like taking down the tree after the first Christmas you weren't excited for.

Author's Note

feedback legit appreciated