(no subject)
Chimney tops, we called them.
But the smoke wasn’t real.
Cherry tears fall onto our heads from a weeping tree.
It is begging us to be safe, to remember
that water creates illusion. Water slices images.
Rocks aren’t where they seem to be. We promise her.
When I suck it in, the winding tendrils
of tepid mountain air coil in my lungs,
then sit heavily. I wait to release them.
Through slit eyes, I find the quickest way across.
Cartography in smoke is misleading.
All six of our legs have scars.
I grab my sister’s hand, and we jump
from slick stone to stone. Small fish
scatter as we near. We blindly run on
clouds of smoke, the rocks have disappeared.
My brother owns the small island ahead,
our destination. He yells and waves wildly
at the camcorder that my dad is surly holding,
the small blinking red light in the distance.
We return after the smoke has risen.
There are towels hung for us on the tree.
My hair sticks to my neck in thick brown sections.
Mud has seeped into my blood, through small holes
the size of sharp pebbles on the soles of my feet.
This dirt is now a part of me, like the smoke.
I pull the tomatoes off of my sandwich
and place them on my dad’s paper plate,
a now translucent disc of oil and vinegar.
He eats them with his fingers.
He tells us it’s not smoke, it’s fog.
But the smoke wasn’t real.
Cherry tears fall onto our heads from a weeping tree.
It is begging us to be safe, to remember
that water creates illusion. Water slices images.
Rocks aren’t where they seem to be. We promise her.
When I suck it in, the winding tendrils
of tepid mountain air coil in my lungs,
then sit heavily. I wait to release them.
Through slit eyes, I find the quickest way across.
Cartography in smoke is misleading.
All six of our legs have scars.
I grab my sister’s hand, and we jump
from slick stone to stone. Small fish
scatter as we near. We blindly run on
clouds of smoke, the rocks have disappeared.
My brother owns the small island ahead,
our destination. He yells and waves wildly
at the camcorder that my dad is surly holding,
the small blinking red light in the distance.
We return after the smoke has risen.
There are towels hung for us on the tree.
My hair sticks to my neck in thick brown sections.
Mud has seeped into my blood, through small holes
the size of sharp pebbles on the soles of my feet.
This dirt is now a part of me, like the smoke.
I pull the tomatoes off of my sandwich
and place them on my dad’s paper plate,
a now translucent disc of oil and vinegar.
He eats them with his fingers.
He tells us it’s not smoke, it’s fog.