Authors: Anne Heide
Thirty-fifth Year
By Anne Heide
Yes, the
other place scorched (her arm, her house)
and floor on fire and barns on fire
THAT FLOOR WAS MADE OF PLYWOOD UNTIL IT MADE THIS MOVE TO DUST.
thick bunch of fingers that breathes the black
stay and watch their noses
and the horses yes have a choice they
red thick inflamed
The doors are open. They are loved that way.
this half-eaten bunch of grass at the door (not what set the blaze teeth marks still embedded)
food OR brushwood
Eva is stowed in the house. Singed fingers.
which can be
birch and distance on occasion
grow my arms the fireman (His daughter is at home reading about her posture and how it so needs to be changed. She is readying herself.) and all look the look of him
towards the
scene out
of this She carried no one out of this.
where his jaw should be but isn't mouth
cancer streaming hoses where were you able to sew
me up, where did you have to leave me open.
the limp of one colt
no reminder
and where now between limp blaze
rows of teeth
and horses
burning
Whitefoot: A white mark on the foot of a horse, between the fetlock and the coffin.