Late August in the Okanagan by David Axelrod

In the wake of the fire front
the stench of ashes,
skeletal pines,

steers and ponies—seared
obscenities—lying on their sides
bloated, dotting paddocks.

Teenage boys sit inside
an idling sedan at the station
and cannot believe their luck,

having found a homeless girl,
who, though she puts on a hard,
brave face, cannot refuse.

She stares straight ahead
at nothing, pretends she is
invulnerable and they are not

merciless. We belong
to no other family
and this idea of ourselves inside

a fireproof house. Think of us
sitting here as fire sweeps through
cheatgrass, as bitterbrush

explodes, the heat turned back
by mud walls and tempered glass.
Think of us in this room,

in a world that caught fire,
each of us crazy to open the door
and throw ourselves into flames.

From: https://www.terrain.org/2017/poetry/david-axelrod/

Date: 2017

By: David Axelrod (1958- )