by Sara Backer
Ashes rise from trash.
Sparks break through the screen.
Snow blows from needles
of pines that reach up
while the sun burns down.
She chose to wear wool
instead of a house.
Fat, round icicles
sharpen in her mouth.
Papers twist and breathe.
In the wind tonight
cinders shrink quickly,
dark, cold, vanishing . . .
No one can see her
watching the fire float.
Published in Kaimana