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Wednesday, January 13, 2021

Conflagration

 


Conflagration

It rained yesterday. Strange.
I thought it would clean the air
but it smells more like ash than it did
before.
No scorched earth, I begged. Let’s
do this right. For once, do something right.
And so far, it’s worked. But
last night you showed your hand,
just a little. And I realized this
fragile peace hinges on my willingness to pay.
I slept uneasy. I’m so close. It’s
nearly done. Hang on. But when I
look out the window, I can’t
tell if it’s sunrise or fire
coming over the ridge
to light the way
or destroy us.
We’re officially a disaster.
Our home. This marriage.
And the world looks on
like rubbernecking drivers
on a crowded freeway.
They talk of mopping up the mess.
Starting fresh. But the air still smells
like smoke. Like a dragon sleeping
in its cave, waiting.
The rain doesn’t wash it all away.
Just brings it to the door.
November, 2007
Joe Collins, Jessica Fleming Crawford and 27 others
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