SMOKE RISING
BY LIZ GLODEK
A crackle of burnt sticks in the center
of a wide, flat circle of dirt; a black
eye on the brown meadow. A drought,
a summer of no rain has everything
taking its last breath and we are
no different. You bend over the fire,
its heat matching the dirt’s heat
coming up through sandals, which show
toenails thick with mud. Another day
marked by the turn of the earth,
like a wagon wheel turning in soft sand.
I have always hated the sun; but
I have always loved the fire.
Gyroscope Review 16-4
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