To Our Mayor
We know your heart holds
a thousand holes
as ash settles on us all.
It would be fair if you felt the flames
one burden too many,
if you asked why this, why now?
Instead we see you on the tv
confident and grateful
patient and protective
ably leading us
away from the brink.
We see how you suffer for us –
the late nights and early mornings,
the thick binders, the endless weeds.
You’re our own Jacinda
and we love you.
You’re engineering us a future.
You’re saving us a home.
aerial view
the subdivision’s smile
is now pitted
with yawning cavities
each an uprooted family
the open wounds
are ready for rot
what could we plant
in each smoking crater?
whose roots might fill
these aching holes?
my hand restlessly sifts ash
searching for seed
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
