Whiskey yellow sky oleanders flailing
toxic flowers dancing santa anas blowing
slow cyclones of cinders the livid ashfall
sticks to our hair pricks our eyes
from the carport up the apartment-clanging stairs
blinded, cinderstung we stumble to your door.
We inhale the rancid stink burning houses
sticks to our clothing to our bodies
sours the taste of our sweat in your bed
as we fuck the AC shifts gears
straining in the astringent heat.
I flash on Pompeian lovers cast in ash.
You are the burglar of my happiness
with each thrust response
sparks along a fireline tinders of dissatisfaction
my thoughts leap fire breaks
race up hillsides blazing-pennant palm trees
exploding eucalyptus blossoms of the conflagration.
Televised disaster broadcast 24by7
a flickering nightlight fires on the LA hills
volume down low your TV murmurs
I dream of helicopters dumping chemicals
when we wake I taste their bitter pinkness
on your lips as you ask
“Is this the end of the world?”
I answer to myself that, yes yes, in a way it is.
Outside your window
the oleanders brush against the stucco
ashes of the morning wait for me.
I unwrap myself from you.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 44 | Fall 2014