Today's poem is by Brynn Saito
Shape of Fire
Sometimes the fires moved closer to home
and sometimes spun back to where they began.
I'd hide us from the fires in a hallway closet
with a book that taught us how to talk
with our hands: make an a like this, and tomorrow
like this, and to make the sign for soul
pull an unseen string from one cupped palm.
When we crawled from our hiding to seek out the souls
they darted like kites through flammable sky.
Tonight I'll fly home through a wind I won't feel
or hear through the engines to be with my sister who wept
in my bedroom when she heard about marks
I'd made on my body. A finger to her lips
that moves to her chest will be the sign for tell me.
To tell her I'm sorry I'll take Father's saw
to the side of the highway and cut through the poles
holding high tension lines. The things I can't live with
exist in the soil-asleep in thistles and feasting
on seedlings. I've learned to fear the future
like I've learned to fear the fires that burst
in the tinder near the fallen wires.
Copyright © 2013 Brynn Saito All rights reserved
from The Palace of Contemplating Departure
Red Hen Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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