Amy
When I was in Americorps,,
I found out I’d be setting fires in Iowan fields.
I also discovered my friend Amy died back home.
We took a pack test, and I was out of shape.
I repeated to myself over and over, “Do it for Amy.”
I said this aloud.
The only thing I regret about this test
is that I was wearing a Cosby sweater.
I passed the test.
What a miracle to start a fire legally.
It’s called a prescribed burn.
And then I was engulfed in fire.
Legal fire.
Percussion was playing
in my head, not a word.
There was fire behind me,
caused by my hands.
I almost exploded.
An adventure.
Bloodshot eyes and a battle cry.
Red, red, red as the earth my hands dug
on other AmeriCorps projects.
Brittle plants smoldered as hills stood black.
My feet were like hunters, attacking charred land.
My mouth was a patient gatherer. It took its time.
It sang, measured.
My mouth relished the water given.
Fire, gorgeous bearer of risks.
In smoke, I was safe, as I never predicted I’d be.
My chest was covered in coals–
an oven.
The drum in my mind was entombed in ashes.
I beat it and live in the dark cloud of memory.
Hear my cavewoman roar.
Thank you, friend.