Childhood Study: Fires Late August
Awake in the middle of the night,
we listen to the grass crackle, to the new world of evacuate.
Like monkeys we screech as the trees go pop—
yellow candelabras, we see and then not.
Now danger damages our capillaries
for the first time, the ladder trucks and sirens
seem like small toys compared with
the neighbor’s fire-fangled trees.
What lit-up between us that summer—
three sisters clustered like barn cats— I can’t say
except for a time camaraderie
warmed the soles of our feet, our robes
remaining intact just one season—
before it all burned away.