where there is smoke - marisa vito

“Real isn’t how you are made…It’s a thing that happens to you.” 

— The Velveteen Rabbit 

my mother extinguished candles 

like a pirate, saliva covering 

the top of her index and thumb. 

spit drowning out the flame. 

i tried to snuff heat, 

but i was a fire baby. 

you have to get over the pain, 

that’s how the candle goes out. 

she showed off the trick again. 

i could not put out the candle. 

a big silly child, she teased, can’t handle a little sting. 

she was better than me. 

but she cried when we read The Velveteen Rabbit. she cried when The Velveteen Rabbit was rotting in the garden. what’s wrong? i chirped. You don’t know what it’s like to be alone. mother with her ugly crying face. her eyes downturned, mouth like a pug, yawning. a big silly child. 

it doesn’t matter that the rabbit becomes real 

or that the skin horse was eerily clairvoyant, what matters 

is what we see in the fire, what causes the brain to scald. 

how did you get over it? 

the question curling itself from my mouth. 

mother answered sharply 

I realized it’s not forever. 

My mom, the douter. 

My mom, the stuffed rabbit. 

My mom, the regretter. 

for her, fire is a home. 

for me, fire polished an idea.

2 

i bent this idea into a circle, whispering 

if i believe in fire, i believe in Mother.

Marisa Vito is a queer, Filipinx poet from Southern California. They graduated from the University of California, San Diego with a degree in English Literature/Writing. Their writing has appeared in The Spectacle, Mixed Mag, Phyll Magazine, Los Angeles Magazine, and Mantis: A Journal of Poetry, Criticism, and Translation. When not reading or writing, they enjoy video games, Vinyasa yoga, studying theory, and learning about niche topics. They are based in Brooklyn, NY.