|Oct/Nov 2009 Poetry Special Feature|
On some fall days, you could smell the burning
everywhere. Backyard leaf piles, rubbish in rusted
metal drums, smoldering tires at Ratty's junkyard.
At night, smoke drifted over the roofs, seeped
into windows and dreams with news of bombed
cities, midnight arsonists, flames that licked slyly
along baseboards or leapt from kitchen cupboards.
Wind scurried ashes along the streets and gutters.
And the chameleon moon blinked its liquid eye.
We shivered in the heat, kicked free of the sheets
and pulled them up again. We turned to our lovers
and turned away at the touch of burning flesh.