by Christine Barkley
A bright orange sky. A bare sea
-bed. A coastline shifting,
a canyon turned arroyo. Any day
now a river might reverse mid
-stream and flow unnoticed
uphill for hours, recrystallize.
It’s not what I was meant to see.
Mid-thought the human mind might
cast a wider net; overfish until
an ocean opens into shore, over
-takes land over days, becomes lake.
Breathless a whale might rot there,
seeking return, seeing forest
for the first time. Nothing
from such depths would know
that the forest wasn’t always aflame.
Doubtless a whale could believe
that inland, fire was the only thing
to see. Doubtless now even I could
believe. A green sky foretelling hail,
tornado. A green sky sickening,
envious of vivid blues. An augury of once
-alive, long-dead; scorched or drenched. Reversing
mid-stream unnoticed, returning never. Ending always
with seabeds bled dry. Ending always with fire
in the foothills and clouds rusting above; somewhere far
away a flood. Somewhere close beside me the earth
in the absence of light still flickers orange
-green and ablaze. It’s not what I am
meant to see. Something deep inside of me
still shifts, seeks return; finds every waterway sun
-dead, desertborn. New wavelengths curve or carve
through the horizon, spill oiled into the opening
ocean. Beyond view the world over
-flows, drowns. I can see now that
there is no return. I seek
shelter, find
only flame.
(first published in The Journal, Issue 46.2)
Christine Barkley 