Wildfire

Get the Flash Player to see this player.
audio: Wildfire
audio of Lynn Marie Houston's poem, Wildfire

Re-Size Text: A A A A Comment

RSS blog print

Lynn Marie Houston

Wildfire

 

      —After Li Young Lee

       

      All of the cities in which I loved you have burned.
      Newark went first—driveways marked by silver
      puddles under ash-gray hulls, yards turned tragic carnivals—
      plumbing like roller coaster tracks wrapped around blackened trees,
      and then the charred scaffolding of homes—their ribs
      hungry, in the end, for everything we owned,
      every evidence of our crimes.
      In our defense, before fire marked us, we had no need
      for piety. Hell’s Kitchen caught next. Then Brooklyn.

      We thought the bay would contain it,
      but coastal winds rallied coals to the dry north.
      Bushwick’s painted brick murals survived
      the inferno, only to be razed by bulldozers.
      The soot-grime lingers in the air.
      Where we once gazed on ventilation ducts
      and Christmas lights, contemplated puddled rain water,
      wicker patio chairs, and the shapes of planes in the sky
      soon to land at JFK, now there is only gravel.

      In New England, the cities burned
      as pyres to arrogance, the days we spent
      near Boston, where we spooned each other
      chowder, combed eelgrass inlets on woolly afternoons,
      and hid from the second-day stench
      of the dying creature we thought we wanted
      out of its shell to make a wind chime, where we prayed
      to keep our aging bones from the wet ache of the sea—
      impotent like the rain, unable to quench
      the fires without a language to speak of misery.

      Never again will I love you where the weathered
      clapboard cottage inclines toward the dunes, where
      we feasted on fried cod and lobster, soaked hot flesh
      in butter while bibbed like children—the aberrant pleasure
      of eating fish with a view of the water from which it was torn
      was like every other commitment oversimplified
      by desire—blubber greasing my bare fingers, slipping
      under your wedding ring—making it easier, after every
      meal, to remove. Only gull colonies watched us overhead.

      The cities in which I will never love you again
      have been laid to waste. Southern cities cindered
      bluish black as they fell to ruin. Birmingham—a relic
      of black powder, a field of embers from which smoke rose
      defiantly, fisted the sky and God, his host of saints.

      When it lit, New Orleans went with pyrotechnics,
      the spectacular blue flame of propylene, spot on
      for the Big Easy. Our visit to the Quarter was no less
      incandescent. Our breakfast nook view of the cathedral
      in Jackson Square—oh, how we profaned that window seat!
      And the fortune-teller’s prophecy I’d forgotten
      until the news reported the fires had spread
      to city number three: Beware the heat, the crone
      had hissed as we walked away, even though the temperature
      hadn’t broken sixty that day. Now, reporters cover
      impromptu parades, floats catching fire as riders dance
      topless. Bars invent special drinks for the celebration—
      one, called the Rad Death and served from a skull-shaped cup,
      included two jiggers of fire ball whiskey and God
      knows what else. For the camera, Mardi Gras Krewes
      dipped bags of beads in gasoline and hurled them flaming
      toward the crowds breathing a vapor of dioxin, carbon
      monoxide, nicotine, and the mothball tang of hurried
      young debutantes in last season’s taffeta, risking
      immolation for a chance to be the Krewe’s new Queen.

      Gone, too, is most of Memphis—the balcony with a view
      of the boarding house’s bathroom, silhouettes
      of guests angling brushes to their teeth, fingertips
      gliding over shaved faces, boys aiming toy guns
      on top of toilet tanks, and how there, in the targeted
      light of afternoon between the too-close buildings,
      you opened a notebook and read from a poem
      you’d written at the Blues museum: the body’s sad
      geography regenerates, recalcitrates into pitted bones
      made for holding wings. I teased you, asked if you were
      thinking of flight because you were going to leave me
      or because you sought redemption. Your eyebrows rounded,
      and I should’ve known should have known then that you
      saw no difference between the two. I should have understood
      when everything started burning.

      But a waterbird landed on a lamppost at dusk, the moment
      a solitary tenor sax player blew his first G sharp on Beale Street
      and, foolish, I mistook it for an omen of good fortune,
      even though, when the Midwest went red, fire gutted
      the Bell Telephone building in which I had loved you,
      and downtown Minneapolis gave itself willingly
      to the flames after being cordoned off as a collapse zone,
      after being emptied of people, as if it were alone
      in knowing the wild flammability of loneliness.

      And the shop with the old-fashioned printing press
      that designed the menus of our favorite barbecue place
      where you kissed me while we snuggled in the corner
      of a wooden booth—it, too, joined the ruin—fed it
      with paper and ink; the barbecue restaurant was also lost
      in the carcinogenic blaze of that lacquered booth, in the artless,
      thousand-degree grill of raw meat stored in the cooler,
      that also cooked the cooler. And the Convention Center,
      where we sat on panels together, left separately,
      apologizing that we had friends to meet.
      After all, you would say, your voice a drum,
      your naked chest beneath my head, we are friends.

      And then I would remind you that we are flesh
      that craves the touch of other flesh, that any true
      pleasure in this life attains the heat and spark
      of a wildfire’s fever, so ardent were our bodies
      that now I see we kindled whole cities to inferno,
      to near-annihilation, that we doomed
      even Nebraska cornfields to devastation.
      Have you ever seen a paper-thin husk blacken
      from a flame? It crackles, wisps, and whirls
      into blue like a drunk soul tripping home.
      One farmer tried to save his fields by cutting
      fire breaks with his John Deere, the blaze so hot
      it blistered the tractor’s paint. And the fire
      soldiered on, sending embers to invade
      surrounding fields on the same breeze that helped
      most of the farmer’s bees journey to a new home,
      after gorging honey for the flight, trained for such an exodus
      by their keeper’s scheduled smoke.
      But their queen’s wings were clipped for his ease.
      They would have tried to carry her, but she was doomed to perish
      in the field—flightless, abandoned by her mates, surrounded
      only by the remnants of their sweetness.
      But even in death she was regal. To burn is better
      than to wink out in a winter sleep.

       

      II.

      The redundancy of Nevada, broke and hungover.
      The redundancy of the hand-painted sign,
      American owned, tacked to the cracked column
      in the entry of the crumbling white motel
      where I see the old cowboy asleep
      at the front desk and think,
      Tell me how you’ve come apart,
      and I will tell you who you are.
      This depraved world burns a morsel at a time
      in different measure, but it all turns to ash nonetheless.

      In Albuquerque, a white curtain
      billows from a charred window, the blood
      of its rose pattern against the black.
      A man stumbles down an alley, finds a coin
      on the ground that imprints a head in his hand
      when he palms it too soon after fire passes.

      The ruins of cities in which you loved me, too,
      could pass for gingerbread cutouts
      left too long in the oven by a harried mother.
      It’s not FEMA we’re waiting for, but children.
      Instead of squeezing icing from a tube, homeowners
      buzzard the rubbish, stand shrunken in shrapnel lots.
      The work of a life reduced to dust and crockery shards.
      They sift like anthropologists of their own decline,
      immigrants living out of a piece of luggage.

      On one San Francisco block, survivors stagger
      through the smoke and ash to harvest chestnuts
      roasted in their shells when the fires raged.
      Converging at the base of one unusually robust tree,
      they are dark figures in the fog sucking sweetmeat,
      some moaning from the unexpected boon.
      Up the road, a coyote lopes between the manzanitas,
      mourning what he’s come to know about humans,
      that they can’t be trusted with the gift of hunger.

      The cities in which I loved you have perished
      in debauched oblivion. The Pacific Northwest
      and its sea glass beaches, suggesting
      to us a fantasy of transformation:
      that the jagged waste of centuries past
      could morph into someone else’s soft treasure—
      a pendant, a lamp, the teardrops on a chandelier.
      All of the beaches and debris disintegrated by the blaze.
      A shattered neon sign points to the wreck
      of a bar I used to love named Home.

      We leave Oregon for Seattle through the mountains,
      stop on tribal grounds for gas.
      You call to reserve a hotel that’s not on fire yet.
      In the general store, I’m drawn to a shelf
      of hand-carved figurines. I buy one in the shape
      of a bird, a sea hawk whose wing tips are just beginning
      to unfurl at the bottom of the block of wood.
      I find you around the corner dragging
      from an American Spirit, unaware you’d taken up
      smoking. Seattle is ravaged, you say. No vacancy.
      And we know beneath the smoky silence that follows
      that we’ve always been a war zone waiting to erupt.
      Every gas pipe, every toxic beam of pressure
      treated wood, an armory in waiting.
      Every city, a giant hookah. Take a hit, inhale
      the sediment of your neighbors’ lives.
      The danger of proximity is that we burn together.
      And the news wastes no more words on whose fault it is.
      Back to just the facts, ma’am—number of dead,
      location of shelters, flow of traffic on evacuation routes.
      Everyone is too tired for in-fighting or pointing fingers.
      And if we were to realize the trouble was nothing
      metaphysical, that we’ve been wired incorrectly,
      living in hazardous electrical conditions all along,
      politicians would call for regulations of torches
      and a ban on incoming immigrants because some
      might bring flint and stone with them across our borders.

      In the midst of this folly, I turn to you
      in the bed of the garret apartment we’ve rented,
      as the news rolls footage of ladders stretched
      near breaking, as firefighters soak the greedy glow
      of high-rise office buildings, and eggs roast
      under chickens roosting on apartment rooftops.
      I turn to you and trace with my finger the cursive
      tattoo beneath your armpit: For what mortal
      has ever heard the voice of the living God
      speaking out of fire, as we have, and survived?
      A mischief of rats descends the fire escape,
      their violent scurry like wings as we begin to make love.
      We can smell smoke somewhere close.
      In the street below, a vehicle stops, a man snaps
      orders about camera angles. You don’t stop
      your search for God inside me, the angry, jealous
      God from your youth, the bitter God of pain
      and sacrifice, demanding relentless devotion.
      You’re so close. You’re like the ghosts
      of the holy when the churches finally burn,
      their iron sighs of release.

      Then, like in a nightmare when you dream
      of the nightmare, when you know the building’s beams
      above and beneath will never hold,
      bricks tumble like a waterfall, and hell-fire
      is on my skin. In my dream, we clear the door
      of the building as a bathtub drops through the ceiling.
      I wake as you press against me, cradling my breasts.
      Across the street, some overworked mechanism
      of a fire truck sparks and catches flame.

       

      III.

      No matter what future history books might try
      to claim, the light from our cities on fire at night
      could not be confused with morning’s dawn.
      For daylight, the contrast of black and white
      was too severe. Survivors rioted, but with nothing
      left to loot, law enforcement let them protest in peace.

      Perhaps it was your own manner of passive resistance
      when you left to get gas and never came back.
      I found your note, explaining nothing, and in grief
      roamed the city alone, combed through words
      and memories, tried to comprehend the moment
      it became a lie. But the only untruth
      was the mall map claiming, You are here,
      when you were most certainly gone.

      There, in front of a map that put me
      in a Macy’s (now obliterated,
      now one wondrous skylight to the heavens),
      I threw the sea hawk figurine into the abyss.
      No more talismans. No more omens.
      Only the real work of looking in the mirror every day.
      I am here, I thought, ready to face the burnt-out
      ends of our lusty daze. And I know a few things
      with certainty: grief is a time bomb in men.
      You will lie and pretend you didn’t openly crave
      the destruction, that you didn’t know from the start
      we would end in flame, take entire populations with us.

      Now, the bed in which I’ve almost convinced myself
      I never loved you is the one I share with other men who dare not
      speak to me of love. They leave, and in my weaker moments
      I hurl your name against the frosted windows of empty rooms
      to hear the sounds of it in my mouth again.
      I cannot hate you. I cannot fault how little you
      understand desire’s compulsion, the long teeth
      of its memory. I hope you find sanctuary, some life’s purpose
      that helps pass the time between loving and dying.

      As for me, I want to go quickly. In the middle
      of something mundane. A last gesture—
      my head’s half turn, eager to move untethered
      into the feathered next. And some years from now,
      as you walk the dog along some country road, you will notice
      the leaves have turned the color of my hair.
      Or as you trail your wife down the aisle
      of the store, gray and balding, pushing the cart,
      the one always with a knot of twine around its wheel,
      you will pause in front of a display of my favorite apples,
      and you will think of me—my name, still
      the only chapter in your history worth telling,
      soon to be a bitter blossom on her tongue.


Able Muse Write Prize for Poetry, 2018 ▪ Winner

 
____________
    “‘Wildfire’ is a poem that rampages through the emotional and geographical territory of two lovers, chronicling a trajectory that parallels subsequent fires occurring in the cities they passed through. The love between them ultimately burns out ‘like every other commitment oversimplified by desire.’ This poem dramatizes in a blast of persuasive, literally searing detail the chaotic energy of a relationship gone wrong. It is rich with vivid imagery, and its narrative rides on its own melting, as Frost said of an ice cube on a hot stove. The reader is swept along in the story of a love that consumes everything in its path, leaving in its wake burning cities and ashen hindsight.”—J. Allyn Rosser, Final Judge, 2018 Able Muse Write Prize (for poetry) on this winning poem, “Wildfire” by Lynn Marie Houston.