By Kiera Baird who makes the spark, the rock or the stick? the wood that’s fragile with texture, soft with jagged ends, weak with pointed pricks or the solid, sound, smooth surface of the cold and hard, composed and round and ready to be struck? one breaks with two fingers but cuts when it snaps in dying, it lies in the blood of its killer. the other is defended from touch but is broken when dropped, in shattering it is so distant from the hands that let it go down,