ON THE FIRES IN COLORADO

*wrote this one a while ago, but took it down to try to submit it a couple places. No such luck, so I thought I’d post it again:

when the western horizon you’ve relied upon is engulfed in flames
when the tv screen screams and the telephone blares and you have
to leave home, have to say goodbye to the place you call home
when you have to run from your memories into clinical stations
into big giant rooms with terrible beds and the floors are flooding
with mothers and fathers and children engulfed in tears drowning out
the western light of chaos out of the western wind, the mountains on fire
when God is a child with a matchbook and somehow God is a fire truck too
when hopelessness spreads like wildfires spreading like the house you used your
soft hands to build and your hard heart to make a home to live and love within
when the grey ghosts like titans tear at your rib cage; your ceiling beams
when there is a genocide on your happiness being composed by an insane conductor
when the evergreens are nevermore and in your rearview mirror is everything
you could carry and in your rearview mirror is smoke and ash and years gone away
when the radio is calm voices that shriek through your sweating forehead and
how are they so calm? why are they so calm? in their cool newsrooms as the reports
pour in like fires like endless fires amongst mountains older than any of us and it
follows you everywhere like a murderer chasing your family down interstate twenty-five and
when you seek refuge in denver, in the hearts and homes of anyone who’ll have you
and you just want to turn off the television and turn off the lights and turn off the sky
when your tears are not enough, when they fight the fires but the fires fight back
when you don’t know what tomorrow looks like and when yesterday is just a dying
phoenix flying falling on its final pair of wings when ashes to ashes and dust to dust
when the road is home but the road is not your home, when you learn to carry your
home inside of yourself and when home is your child’s hand in the palm of your hand
there is struggle and there is a day you have to go back to the debris and the rust and death
and shovel through to see what the world looks like if you were not a part of it but
when you are forced to do all this, i admire your courage and anyone caught in the cross-
fires knows that this too will pass and until it does i wish you serenity and love and don’t let
the fires that burn endlessly swallow the stories i have heard in your throat and see in your
red eyes.

COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2012

 

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