They Say Fire Is A Metaphor - Lynn Axelrod

[Larry Robinson]

They Say Fire Is A Metaphor

I
We weren't ready for everything to go.
We told some gods 
we were grateful for what we had
—a paltry thing against infernos.

Broken voices reached us on ether, 
discovered their own breath 
still ninety-eight point six but choked 
like a ghost with fever.

We search for lost ones through what remains
––cement angels, crazed rock, melted
metal cast as pyres—incinerated
by refusal electeds dare not explain.

II
Ash lungs––celestial tea of spider webs,
throats clogged––no relief. Yellow sky. 
Clouds swirled like ply unraveling, 
smoldering threads. 

Brigades of birds shot out, circling alone,
nestlings agape, flame-fed 
calls crossed woven twigs, grass,
ephemera destined for indeterminate bone.

Blanketed babes wound in arms for cradles, 
ash where they stopped, unsifted mix
of wool, milk, grain, bleached of sound. 
Only wind trembles.

Twisted trees, charred limbs affright; 
rivers of dust will follow, 
swallow trunks, leave glistening stone 
arbors twice petrified. 

       - Lynn Axelrod