Fire-Breathers
by Cheyanne Brabo
In the dusk of a hot day, she appeared
To sort out earthly peace from agitation,
Dunking cloth in kerosene and piling it on;
Sweet things burn brighter than mean ones.
He drug the corpse to the yard
Where heretofore they built a pyre
And made a pact with its holy flames
That it only burnt the flesh that wronged them.
Yes, the blaze could bake, broil, and boil
Any food two lovers could eat save for
Meals with nourishment––they made a buffet of
A lightning-charged sky and burning elm;
The sort of feast that could only make chaos and––
Without knowing their wounds needed consistency
If they were ever going to heal––they got sicker,
Acting like medieval healers letting blood.
And where could a food chain end?
I wouldn’t know, certainly not when my town
Is forever cloaked in their ashes, so even rain
Comes to Earth in the color of misery.
Every child born in our state is like this––
Desperate and half formed––even those of
These two fearsome and famous fire-breathers
Are not free, they only catch black-lung first.
And I’m ashamed to say that I am one of them,
Choking everywhere I go, prepared for them to
End the world like they forever threatened.
Send your daughters away from here,
Little girls are never safe in the darkness
To sort out earthly peace from agitation,
Dunking cloth in kerosene and piling it on;
Sweet things burn brighter than mean ones.
He drug the corpse to the yard
Where heretofore they built a pyre
And made a pact with its holy flames
That it only burnt the flesh that wronged them.
Yes, the blaze could bake, broil, and boil
Any food two lovers could eat save for
Meals with nourishment––they made a buffet of
A lightning-charged sky and burning elm;
The sort of feast that could only make chaos and––
Without knowing their wounds needed consistency
If they were ever going to heal––they got sicker,
Acting like medieval healers letting blood.
And where could a food chain end?
I wouldn’t know, certainly not when my town
Is forever cloaked in their ashes, so even rain
Comes to Earth in the color of misery.
Every child born in our state is like this––
Desperate and half formed––even those of
These two fearsome and famous fire-breathers
Are not free, they only catch black-lung first.
And I’m ashamed to say that I am one of them,
Choking everywhere I go, prepared for them to
End the world like they forever threatened.
Send your daughters away from here,
Little girls are never safe in the darkness
Cheyanne Brabo is a poetry and fiction writer who lives and works in Northern California. Her work has been featured in C.C.&D. Magazine, in Scars Publication’s 2019 Poetry and Contributors Anthology, in Kingdoms in the Wild, and in Anatolios Magazine’s inaugural issue. When she’s not writing, she enjoys working as a vet assistant to her local animal hospital.