We fall asleep
in a tent a
few miles south
of Hell. No,
really, we have a
town named Hell
here. My boys
doze as someone
rifles off a hundred
gunshots far enough
away toward Hell
that I know we’re safe
this time, out here.
The boys stir. They
breathe. I would
attract every bullet
like a goddamned
black hole right now
if I knew they’d
be okay forever but
that’s not how it
works, not everyone
gets to be Jesus
even if you
want to.
Somewhere closer
but not near, dogs—
maybe 3?—roar
with the fury of
scared beasts at
the unknown, roar
like tornados,
like howitzers,
like walls of flame,
like hellstorm.
Sorry but
I’m not sleeping tonight.
The guys at the
campsite around the
corner make wild
calls till 4:00, a
bacchanalia of two
dudes yelling “Friday!”
and feral hoots
like one assumes
they assume
a griffin would
sound like.
I celebrate their
happiness but still
try to sleep with my
Leatherman closed
in my hand.
Anyway, warm for
October but still
cold, I cover them
with blankets over
their sleeping bags.
Warmth. I pull back
the rain fly, let
the stars into
the tent as more
join us through
the new gaps the
leaves leave as
they fall onto our
tent all night.
pat pat pat
Our fire’s embers
tendril smoke—
I breath that
instead of air.
Let me stay, tonight,
in tonight. Let me
breathe our fire,
carry it to tomorrow
when my eight-year-old
wakes early, rebuilds
the fire with me,
roasts an apple out
of delicious curiosity
and basks in its warm
success. We startle
from the sound
of firecrackers—
near—then see
the white flashes
through the trees—
sandhill cranes
taking flight
across the small lake.
They call. We listen.
We don’t answer. We
speak the wrong tongues.
The boys, later, on the
dock, lie flat, reach,
pick white feathers
out of the water,
hold them high to
morning light.
The feathers glow
as sun rises over
red & orange trees,
and we all watch
white feathers light
like fire in the
warming sun, happy to
be here, thankful
to have experienced
it at all.
