grants pass, oregon
tue. 7 june 2pm • 110 in the shade
Holding hands with the heat
The first inferno you must
pass through salts the world,
stilling everything.
Leaves turn orange,
burnished by the heat
though it is only June.
They spill false promises of shade,
smudges through which
the sun still leaks,
firing everything.
Metal sizzles.
So does pavement.
But I am neither—
I can only tell this world,
Do not be afraid of me
I am not the dragon
who will saw you away
or redden you
(like that car in the distance)
into stone and absence.
I do not seek to remake
you with pen or paint—
this small thing in my hand
only seeks to intercept the sun
for the sake of a little shade.
I only pray with my own skin
for a few green answers
to my burning questions.
There is so little precious
moisture here, my tears
cannot lie to anyone—
including myself.