Setting match to paper
Clinging to kindling a cricket
body a bulge
pregnant with eggs
crawls from orange heat
Antennae wave in supplication
face a silent scream
Why don’t you jump?
I reach into smoke
that rises like steam scented green
but mama shies from fingers toward fire
then returns as I withdraw
Why won’t you jump?
For little cricket babies
Please
Did I really need for warmth
for cheer this fire?
We burn the planet
our home
I hear crackles
like my heart
You are not ash
You rise as swirling smoke and dancing flame
You join the blue envelope of Earth
Two days later on the hearth
a cricket thinner
Antennae bob in greeting
I wonder but
my faith in karma
tested
Naked old people at the beach, we
are curious about your scars
will tell about ours
unfold with creases
maps of roads taken
laugh at our own bodies
never at yours
have battered hearts
and low-hanging parts
thin hair
down there
find spots on our flesh
like fruit
unfresh
play in sand
with children’s laughter
wondering what world
comes after
Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest book of poetry is Random Saints.
Clinging to kindling a cricket
body a bulge
pregnant with eggs
crawls from orange heat
Antennae wave in supplication
face a silent scream
Why don’t you jump?
I reach into smoke
that rises like steam scented green
but mama shies from fingers toward fire
then returns as I withdraw
Why won’t you jump?
For little cricket babies
Please
Did I really need for warmth
for cheer this fire?
We burn the planet
our home
I hear crackles
like my heart
You are not ash
You rise as swirling smoke and dancing flame
You join the blue envelope of Earth
Two days later on the hearth
a cricket thinner
Antennae bob in greeting
I wonder but
my faith in karma
tested
Naked old people at the beach, we
are curious about your scars
will tell about ours
unfold with creases
maps of roads taken
laugh at our own bodies
never at yours
have battered hearts
and low-hanging parts
thin hair
down there
find spots on our flesh
like fruit
unfresh
play in sand
with children’s laughter
wondering what world
comes after
Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His latest book of poetry is Random Saints.