FIRE WHIRLS

Faint smoke obscured
the mountain—
               or was it haze? fog?

 

                           The television showed a map
spotted with cartoon flames
                                          the live coverage, a leaping unpredictable choreography

 

without the cracking popping and smell of smoke
                                                        still photographs hypnotized

 

A man described his walk towards help—
                   embers sparkling, a flickering carpet of light against the black sky
                                                                                    said he’d like to paint what he saw

 

Wind patterns created fire whirls
                                 dervishes throwing off flaming logs, burning debris

 

Megafire, they said, plan for disaster
              dis      aster       bad star           bad luck
                                                           not really, considering, we are the cause

 

of the overheated, over-dry grassy-floored
                   valley overbuilt
                                                     a complex web of damage

like De Kooning’s colors
                                                                                       violent        tangled         desirous

 

 

 

 

 

PANDEMIC WALK I

This morning, I could walk
                                                     to an open field

              where there might be
                                                                    an aging Chinese woman
                                                                                                       practicing Tai Chi, her                                                                                        careful movements, now in sync
                                                                                                   with a slowed down world

If I followed the edge                   of cut grass, I would find a path              up a hill
                                                                                                                        through faded
                                                                                                                           milkweed &                                                                                                                       mustard

along the path                     gold-toned plaques              the size of open magazines

                                                                                 featuring
                                                                                           poems

But a walk, these days, seems more than enough
                                                                                                            without words

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER MONTHS MISSING THE CROWDED SUBWAY

 

I want to go back to the crush close push press
of unfamiliar bodies, sweat stink and soft punch
of day-old powdery perfume, scent of strawberry
shampoo from someone’s still wet hair. I want
the lurch lean sharp stop, oh sorry, quick slide-slip
of hands making room on a metal pole for one more.
Would that I could feel a stranger’s lycra’d thigh
against me in an orange plastic seat. Oh yes, I’d praise
exploding gems on a screen, small victories
seen over a shoulder and wouldn’t even flinch
from an unlikely pinch. Let my eyes
rove roam over a muscled bicep, inked blue
mute red serpent disappearing under the sleeve
of a black tee. I’d star gaze at nails bejeweled
in tropic brilliance then lose myself to the pink shell
of a girl’s ear, a nape’s shadowy curve. 

 

 

Charlotte Friedman writes poetry, memoir and personal essay. She is the author of The Girl Pages: A Resource Guide for Strong, Confident, Creative Girls (Hyperion) and received her MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her poetry has been published in Light, Connecticut River Review, Intima and elsewhere.