Camp fire

Fotografia de Anjana Menon

after the fires come rain

& in the time between

one devastation & another

we delight in the normal

pleasures of a sky weeping

like an adolescent

in a multiplex parking lot—

how unusual for this place

without water to be now

drowned in it, people lift

their heads—tree farms

drinking at the gray tap.

it hasn’t rained since i moved

back & i know after this

comes the mudslides from

the ruined hillsides

& later—wild blooms

of near devastating beauty

which too will die & dry

into food for a new fire

even more terrifying than

the last—where our breathing

masks will laugh at our

efforts to respire here.

& still despite its portent

the rain this morning

is lovely. the sound of it

outside my window

does what it did as a child—

permissions us to stay in

or go out & be wetted along

with everyone who lives

here, who too exists in this

circumstance of weather,

who breathes in the wet

sidewalk. i watch the trees

drink & glisten like old

drag queens—read

an article from my father

on the hatred of jews

in europe. violence & fire

on the rise & on the horizon.

i read the article & then

read the article again

this time only for the names

of cities where statues are

cut from marble into

the shape of men so beautiful

& soft you can’t help

but fall in love. the stone

breathing & hot & when wet

almost dancing.

Sam Sax