poetry

Post-fire Helpfulness Spectrum: Three Case Studies

Abby Draijer-Kidder's Dutch apple pie.

Post-fire Helpfulness Spectrum: Three Case Studies

Insurance patiently yet insistently explains to my friend
how her ash-covered mattresses
(which Insurance concedes cannot be salvaged)
may not be disposed of
until Insurance has the chance to
unsuccessfully attempt to clean them,
and Insurance is all booked up
unsuccessfully attempting to clean
other ash-covered mattresses for weeks.

My bewildered but equally patient and insistent friend
explains to Insurance
that the mattresses are stinking up her house,
that Insurance is sending people to scrub her home’s air next week,
that the mattresses need to go,
that the city has invited people to put their ash-covered mattresses
out on the street this week to be hauled away for free.

Let’s do it, and save us both time and money! she pep-talks Insurance.

But Insurance rigidly Ma’ams her back
and explains how things must be:
Insurance will pay someone to pick up the ash-covered mattresses
and pay to package them to protect them from further damage
and pay to haul them to a storage locker
and pay to store them in the locker until someone is available.
Then Insurance will pay
to unsuccessfully remove the ash from the mattresses.
Insurance will then admit defeat
and pay for the mattresses to be hauled away
and will pay to dispose of the mattresses.

My out-of-patience friend sits silent on the line
nothing left to say.

On the other end of the spectrum,
Abby Draijer-Kidder bakes pies
and writes
Just come and get some pie.

Jennifer Cooper Gulley stocks her coolers
with 25 free home-cooked meals
and writes
Come and get it!

poetry

nursing the world

St. Francis Inn mural by Brian Ames, photographed by Jim McIntosh.

nursing the world

Written in response to “Saint Francis and the Sow” by Galway Kinnell, which you can read here or listen to Galway read here. Inspired by a prompt from Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer’s Loving the Self: A Poetry Playshop.

Galway Kinnell tells me
how to press a palm
to a flower’s brow
until its cellulose walls
feel, through the warmth of that kind, gentle hand,
the radiant energy of that soft, undemanding touch,
the truth of the flower’s self-realized loveliness.

Oh, Galway, and Saint Francis,
and yes, the flower’s green leaf,
and the sow’s muddy hoof,
press yourself to my temple
until this blessing sings through my limp limbs
so I might do the same.

All anyone wants
is to be enough.
To have warranted the atoms they’re made of.
To have patiently pressed their palm
to another needy being’s brow
and then watched them shine with joy.

poetry

how we have been changed

how we have been changed

the Californians speak of fire hardening
ask if we’ve done it
no, but perhaps it’s been done to us

so many of us are like the survivors
in a forest after flame
you see the blackened triangular fire scars
for decades reaching up from the earth
marking the moments
when the tree might have become wood

but there’s also fire softening at work now

a new tendency to give others the benefit of the doubt
to not question whether they might have
had their misfortune coming to them
to give whole-heartedly, finally
embracing the there but for the grace of God
or a shift of wind
go I humility we all ought to have

it’s much too soon to see
how this fire will mark us
how we might now meet the world
what tangled undergrowth might have been
cleared out of our chests by
such a fierce blaze

poetry

koimeterion

Photo by Nearmap.

koimeterion

driving past the burn today
I finally name what it evokes in me –
cemetery:

the structures low to the ground
the winding streets now going nowhere
the arboretum of cultivated trees
the metal shapes like iron railings
delineating a family plot

so many memories interred
in each rectangular basement-crypt
nearly everything gone to ashes already

from the Greek word for sleeping place
where souls once breathed quiet midnight dreams
(or tossed fitfully, as it may be)
now there’s only the eerie absence of an old life gone

poetry

Imbolc / Candlemas / Groundhog Day

St. Brigid's Cross

Imbolc / Candlemas / Groundhog Day

tomorrow we’ll be one day closer to spring than winter
though subzero when we wake
but we still won’t know where the spark started

my husband walks Washington
and says the burn looks like Syria
the devastated portion on the news

I stay away out of respect
and maybe out of not wanting the images in my eyes
and also simply out of staying out of the way

there are enough complications everywhere
without this body adding one more

this cross-quarter night
what safe candle can I light that leaves no ash
what flame might I set in my head
or milk in my hands to divine our future
what keening might heal the blackened hills
for we’ve no rushes to weave in this dry place

poetry

whether to know

whether to know

two ways today I’m asked
if I want to know
what’s in the air we’re breathing
and the answer is
I don’t know

because we can’t stop bringing it into our bodies
and we aren’t the type to pick up and move

the numbers may tell us
what we don’t want to hear
but if we don’t know
at least we don’t know

Margaret says,
We’re doomed. And?

Sarah says,
Don’t give your worries swimming lessons.

I say,
When can I just breathe easy?
And, will my children ever?

poetry

fire dream

fire dream

I dreamt ashes in our attic
soot on the windowsills
unnoticed for weeks

we’re all wearing ashes
on our foreheads these days
visible or not

poetry

the schools keep finding a way

the schools keep finding a way

when we said you can’t gather
they figured out how to get together
how to support our children
one living room to the next

when the towns were burning down
the schools sealed their ducts
so smoke stayed outside
and the buildings were saved

when flames chased toward the hospital
the schools called up their bus drivers
home on vacation, they drove toward danger
and rushed patients to safety

when whole neighborhoods burned
the schools reassured them –
you belong here with us
wherever you land

now they’re busing children
from the county’s four corners
so kids can have one bit of same
in this immense uncertainty

when the students had nothing
no backpacks no Chromebooks
no boots or winter coats
the schools greeted them
with a handful of everything

they set up free thrift shops
in the school parking lot
when we worried about the playground
they carted off the wood chips
when we worried about smoke
they tested the air

already feeding everyone
lunches for free
they added food pickup
for those whose pantries were gone

when I read that one-sixth
of Coal Creek Elementary families’ homes burned
(60 of 380 students’ homes are gone)
I began to understand

the immensity of the undertaking
to try to stabilize what has been deeply traumatized
to hold together a bit of the fabric
that once knit these families to each other

we ask so much of our schools:
our teachers, administrators,
support staff, custodians, paras, and kitchen staff,
school nurses, and counselors,
social workers, and bus drivers,
special ed teachers, psychologists,
registrars, front office staff,
and occupational therapists –
any title you think of at our schools –

we’re asking more of them now
than ever before
knowing that some of them
are also navigating their own loss

41 of them dealing
with their own new unhoused lives
while trying to stay hopeful
for the children they nurture

poetry

Annie’s Story

A frame from video of the Marshall Fire evacuation taken by David Zalubowski with the Associated Press. https://www.nytimes.com/live/2021/12/30/us/colorado-fires

Annie’s Story

when her 8-year-old son kept saying
I don’t want to die today
she calmly explained
that wouldn’t happen
they were safe
the fire was a long way away
they would leave if it ever got close

a few hours later
trapped in gridlock
with the smoke plumes getting darker
her family split between
different cars and departure times and friends
she’s nearly overcome by the unbearableness of
stasis in the midst of terror
jammed in this long line of sitting ducks
straddling gas tanks

so she asks the traffic control lady
if she’s still going the best way,
and the lady shakes her head and says,
there are a lot of people getting hurt up there
(which later proved to be false,
but then she’d no way to know)

afraid to learn exactly how close the flames are now
she wills herself not to check the messages on her phone
instead she calls her National Guard brother
pleading for him to find her an exit
thinking to herself
I don’t want to die today

but even with his emergency ops experience
and all the info he is calm enough to marshal
all her brother can tell her is stay where she is –
north is the only way

now she says, everyone miraculously safe,
things aren’t the same

sometimes it’s like my nervous system is outside my body
she says
like there is no buffer between the world and me

I will never leave my husband’s side in an emergency again
she says
I wanted us to be together if something happened

I will never wait for an evacuation order again
she says
by the time they order you it’s too late
the roads are packed solid

I’m glad I took my rings
but I didn’t really need my wedding photos –
more of those exist

my main regret is I didn’t grab my grandmother’s box
it goes between my mom and uncles
so they have turns with her memories

my mom had loaned it to me
and I would have let them down
if I’d let it burn

one of the hardest moments was
picking up my daughter from her friend’s.
she asked me if our home was gone
and all I could say was
I don’t know

It wasn’t

I’m one of the lucky ones
and I’m still crying every day

poetry

cultivating hope

cultivating hope

how to counter
that burned-out feeling
hollowed and cratered
and smoldering sulfur

how to raze the ruins
that’ve laid waste to your acreage
that puff black smoke
with each footfall

where to put the melted
twisted metal detritus
the toxic conglomerate
of how we once lived

how to make space for new ways
when dangerous wreckage
demands all your attention
all your reserves

each day there’s too much to do
to corral devastation
too much at risk
all the stakes are too high

the earth is too frozen
to lay our backs to this January
we can’t breathe in green warmth
and fall up into sky

but, it’s going to take more than just rage
and more than demands
more than a reckoning
and not less than love

how else can we cultivate
a new way of being
besides sowing/sewing it
singing it joyfully

believing audaciously
daring to hope

pushing our tired hands
deep into scarred soil
not giving up
until something green grows