Photo by David Clode on Unsplash.
I am walking in the noon sun
through the canyon, searching for evidence
of the fire that woke us last night.
There are no remains – no charred
earth, no noseful of smoke or rivulets
of mud churned by the firefight.
So I go looking for blackberries
in the wood, thinking of the tart fruit
I devoured last summer, when I
was newly pregnant. But the
thickets have been cut back and picked
over by birds and human hands.
Last night you came clutching
a belated half-apology, seeking – what,
exactly? The sun has long set
On the day for amends between us.
the woman you seek no longer lives in this
house, this unfamiliar body.
In the oppressive sky, a clucking raven
dives, hunting what meager morsels are
brave enough to emerge at midday
in this summer fever,
more stunning for what it lacks: fog,
noise, abundance, comfort, peace.