As If We Weren’t on Fire
a golden shovel after “Barn Burning” by Kristin Bock
way too far out
into the fields of
the west, where the
truest religion is smoke
a fire still burns a
ghost walks up to a mare
& as the ghost walked
up the mare began to rise up
with no one in the field to belong to
& sang to the ghost (of me);
why not learn this earth slowly
here you are skimming the vastness as
if time can be fit like a glove as if
you knew time herself & thought she
just might bend her body, you knew
this whole time, that time was not for you (or me)
& as
the west burned if
burned is the word we
watched together but weren’t
ever able to settle on
what was time & what was fire
Orizuru
this is not my last life
but my second to last
so show me a good time
i’ll paint you the autumn within
a long series of rebirths
i swear
we can carry the mountain on our backs
if we were just to turn off that hunger
that feeds on hunger
we could set down the wheel
& let the earth get us safely home
spend all mondays laying
across the soft grass
with nothing in our pockets
this is my second to last life
i am just beginning to hear the old world
calling from beyond the dream line
i have never been more young more old
never have i arrived more found in a reverie
where weeping is a prayer to the flower
the flower itself a prayer
i can see the flower’s winter in summer
the shadow of its petals in the snow
my feet insistent
on sinking into the sand
at the bottom of the river
i don’t claim to understand anything
i’m trying to understand myself
i won’t get lost in the folds of the paper
just focus on flapping my paper wings
The Song of the Grasshopper
the old fable tells us
the grasshopper sang all summer
& late into the autumn
meanwhile the ants worked very hard
hoarding food for the looming winter
grasshopper learned his lesson
when the frost came in a flurry
luckily the ants welcomed him in
to the warmth of their home
to share in their abundant feast
winter moved in—
in the eye of imbolc there was a
great disturbance: a grosbeak sensed
the large hoard of fruit the ants had
gathered & with a fury she came &
took almost all of the reserves into her beak
the ants were left with only scraps
to get them through those late days of winter
where it seemed the sun
could not return soon enough
it was then the grasshopper
began to sing:
his song of warm
orange sunshine
& cool crisp water
of the verdant blooms
& the joys of bouncing
from leaf to leaf
the song he knew so well
& had sung all summer
each late winter night
as the grasshopper &
the ants slept with empty bellies
they fed on all they could
the song of what was waiting for them
on the other side of their deep hunger
Words by Brice Maiurro
Brice Maiurro is a Colorado poet, workshop facilitator, storyteller and artist. He is the Editor-in-Chief of South Broadway Press. He has authored four collections of poetry, including The Heart is an Undertaker Bee, published by Middle Creek Publishing. His work has been published by Alien Buddha Press, Amaranth Publications, and Inverted Syntax. Themes of his work include human connection, ecology, and finding the divine in the mundane.
