It's not
Armageddon
spreading amber fog from north to south
across September sky. And no, that's nota metaphor for depression, or the slow death
of love. Not even with its signature referenceto the season of falling leaves. It's just smoke
from a brush fire two hundred miles away,staining sunlight the color of white sheets
soaked in a rusty bin. It's just a minor fuckup ---a guy in his yard burning leaves, a spark
from a gas powered motor, that Old Crow bottlesmashed in a dry field, finally finding its flame ---
with a consequence writ long enoughfor satellites to photograph from space. It's just
ash dusting the parking lot, like dandruffbrushed from the shoulder of an itchy god.
--- ©2009 Cheryl Dumesnil
University of Pittsburgh Press