He Laid the Live Coal Against My Lips
And the posts of the door moved
at the voice of him that cried,
and smoke filled the house.
– Isaiah 6:4
Behold, chimneys like exposed backbones,
knives and forks glowing in the ash,
a jog-stroller with melted tires. A man
dead in his front yard, right hand
still grasping the garden hose.
Lo, the Age of Great Fires has commenced,
blown in on the scorched breath
of some God whose ember armies scratch
across the sky like tracer bullets.
I meant to be talking about second chances
New Year’s resolutions. But these infernal images
of houses aflame, trees blown sideways,
horses neighing down the burning streets
of our nightmares. My own brother, my friends,
fleeing for their lives. Biblical, the councilman says,
because at the convergence of our fragility
and responsibility is a grief so deep
we reach for the groans of the prophets.
Woe is me, for I am undone, I say,
lips burning from my face. Where in this land
is the sackcloth? There is too much ash.
There is too much ash.
Craig van Rooyen’s poems have appeared in 32 Poems, Best New Poets, Cincinnati Review, Narrative, Ploughshares, and elsewhere. He lives on California’s Central Coast.
Read more poetry by Craig van Rooyen appearing in Terrain.org: “Mustard: On Turning 55” and two more poems, “North” and “Jacob’s Ladder.”
Header photo by Kevin Ellis, courtesy Pixabay.
