checking the names
my index finger ticks down the names
and finds another family I know
but more than that, there’s the grief
distilled in the very action
so many fingers traced down so many lists
stopped and shaken by what they touch
or who they learn they’ll not touch again
such hope and desperation in this act
caressing the lines that make the letters
that spell out someone’s fate
after the evacuation order’s lifted
when you first arrive home
after the town caught fire
things will look the same:
soft slabs of snow will mushroom
atop parked car roofs
and Christmas lights will still wrap trees
it’s not until you reach your kitchen
that the full import meets you –
your home still stands, thank God
and the firefighters and Aeolus –
and it stands at 45 degrees and falling.
one of you starts the pellet stove
while the other takes the truck to find more pellets
and free space heaters
and you quietly begin living a new way.
next you look at the gas stove (impotent)
and realize you haven’t means to boil water
and can’t drink what’s in the tap
so you forage for water, too, life stripped to its elements,
five-gallon jugs filled by a friend
in the next town west, where taps magically still flow clean
and now you learn to pour liter carafes
and even dainty cups after a day’s practice
from what’s usually your campsite stash.
when the large men clomp inside
in their Carhartts and work boots
big beards and cold toes
and give you back warm nights
and hot water, you push gifts into
their wide palms: candy canes and
chocolate bars, gushing thanks, and beer,
and it turns out one lives two blocks away
and his toddler and your little neighbor are friends.
and in the midst of all this confusion
so many new ways of doing/being
there’s also the dark knowledge
that your son’s kindergarten teacher’s home
is now just another smoldering pit
and your dog’s brother now has no yard to call his own,
and 500 neighbors don’t have these inconveniences
of gas and water to deal with now
because everything is gone
New Year’s Eve after the Marshall Fire
when the only air to breathe
is so cold it burns your lungs
it, too, feeds your cells
in these the days of emergencies
of Plan B or C or D
or abandoning all plans
and surrendering to survival
let us remember
what a gift it is to have cold crystals
descend upon us
what a miracle that waves of fire
and whispers of snow
exist
Marshall Fire
our latest calamity:
half the town burning down
I crawl into bed after watching it burn
and the blanket shoots sparks into my hands
oh fire and ice gods
winter and spring axes
let me recall how to press these palms
so they still manage to hold joy
let me find a way to still
admire a stray spark
on not winter-camping
once the dark falls
I draw the cabin walls around me
filling them with wood and warmth
shutting out the fox’s screams
cross-Tasman smoke
at first it seemed low-lying cloud
like the grey embedded in Great Lakes life
a natural ceiling for a January day
but when I saw the sun
my heart slumped
that sick pink-salmon shade
that without fail means fire
it doesn’t matter how many oceans we cross
the earth everywhere is burning
still we recklessly slake our thirst for jet fuel
while the ash rains down on our hair
we should undoubtedly stay home
satisfied with others’ memories
but it feels like asking too much
to refrain from ever knowing
some of what is left
another climate crisis
dappled sun on sidewalk goes orange
and our eyes jerk up to sky –
that eerie fire light
filtered through smoke again –
I see the wavelength change before I smell it
and my heart tenses and stomach sinks
we are meant to run from this
not choke on smoke summer after summer
Colorado Alaska Sydney Medan –
wherever we go
the flames are there:
lodgepole cones explode
eucalypts ignite
jungle succumbs to palms
and now the whole fat squashed disk
of this country/continent
glows garnet red on the heat map
the only cool blue left
is boiling ocean
the men in suits clamp their ears shut
to not hear the crackle
to ignore the girl in braids
who demands they be bold by being humble
admit they’ve upset a balance
put too much black coal on the ledger
run everything into the red
lantern light
that warm glow of being burned
just gentle enough to sleep by
cabins and miners and romance
mixed with kerosene’s greasy smell
liquid light in glass
raising and lowering the wick
snug nostalgia
now nearly snuffed out
fire
coals sleep in ashy coats
barely breathing
until the log is laid
when the stove door shuts
a roaring wind rises
charred bits turn to sparkler
showering the unsuspecting
wedge of wood
with arcing stars
I like to watch
the big blocks stop fighting
allow the undeniable heat
to loose their internal suns
with a whoosh
they go from tame tan
to fans of blue yellow red green
all at once
consumed, crackling
throwing heat
lignin turned to light
the long tough fibers
collapsing from letting go
the metal box creaking
from trying to contain
energy years in the making
while rain thrums on the roof
hoping to put it all out
one time that was me
trying to tamp down
the urge to say something
but every time I tried to go dark
something still glowed like red hot glass
we’re stars
every one of us
burning inside
to light up the dark
