A poem-a-day protest against the threat posed to our democracy by the current occupant of the White House
Susan M. Craig
Today the sky
ineffably blue—all while I’ve read the fires are only
five miles distant—five miles in these Blue Ridge mountains
dense with brittle hardwood, underclad with contorted
mountain laurel—deep green rhododendron budded, not yet
bejeweled in fuchsia. I walk with the dog across the little river
bridge—a river which seems more like a trickling
dream. Rain has been scanty the first of spring.
The bridge rails are crafted of laurel branches—mountain ivy,
the longtime locals call it. How I love this art
of imperfection, no twig the same, no call for straight lines.
A white-haired man comes out of his cottage and waves a welcome.
Come closer, he motions, points to his right ear.
We amble nearer—his cheeks are ruddy, his smile
alive with gumption—his fleece vest burred in leaf fragments,
detritus of bark, shed hair of a yellow dog.
I ask if he plans to evacuate—he responds with a rousting negative.
He exhorts me not to panic, says he’s a retired fireman.
This is no fire! he exclaims; scoffs at smoke like a little brother.
These hardwoods, he declares, will not burn like California.
He gestures to the lush looming forest, our common haven.
I notice his red ball cap’s white letters “Make America…”
I do not lean closer to finish the sentence. Even so, his proclamation
leaves me momentarily reassured, held in sway by some old
generational bravado—and yet there are truths
belying words—that winds can roar like dragons—
that Helene downed limbs and scattered brush, perfect tinder.
That we live in a different day.
He said last night his wife was desperate to leave.
We’ve got nothing to worry about, he assured her.
I smile wordless, the dog and I stroll off like silent siblings.
Today the sky ineffably blue—and yet
some odd quality of light I remember, this
oblique tone of a looming giant.
Today—the sky.
I leave with the dog and our belongings
just before the mandatory order comes through.
Should I worry for them, this couple of an ages-old paradigm?
He so certain he has nothing to fear—not the inferno,
not the smoke, not the earth’s
undoing. Today the sky—ineffably blue.
Ashes float like pieces of feathers. On my way home,
the valleys are swallowed in smoke.
Susan M. Craig is the author of the chapbook Hush (Seven Kitchens Press, 2023). Her poems have appeared in Poetry South, Mom Egg Review, Kakalak, Quiet Diamonds, Jasper and other journals. She is a visual artist and lives in Columbia, SC.
Indolent Books and editor Michael Broder are back with another poem-a-day series as a creative response to the threat posed to our democracy by the current occupant of the White House. The plan is to continue for all 1460 days of the 47th American presidency.
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