Lodgepoles skinned smooth as silver
taper to threads at the top.
Shedding scorched husks of granite
rocks glow with the newness of skin.
Purple seeds burst like confetti
from blackened cones.
It all looks
overexposed somehow,
unaccustomed to so much light.
Deeper than snow, the ash
is spongy under my boots
and silent. Even the air
has been ground into powder.
Quivering in this blackstick forest
I cannot hide.
Breaking from willows
I see him
antlers and haunches blackened
from grazing, Massive and shy,
the moose lowers his dusty head
to find my eyes. He is unafraid.
We have come through this fire
still flashing behind our eyes,
under our skin. We have retumed
to a place that had been engulfed
in flames and fear.
My flight
burns with the memory of exile.
There is no hiding here. This fire
has peeled my father's death from me,
licked away the grief
layered on me like calloused, old bark.
Turning from me the moose
saunters toward the slice of green
on the other side of the river.
©Copyright 1997 Amy Polisso
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