New Jersey 8, or Poem

Before the Phoenix Rose

In response to Esme's comment that "We're going to run out of water, one day."

1
That night, the power went out.
The dark brought our neighbors
into the street like worms after a storm.
By then, the fire was so close
we could dance in the living room
without tripping; we stood,
back pressed to chest, and watched
the trees we once climbed.
You said it was worse than
watching your mother die,
and I led you to bed.
Sweat fell like the rain that wouldn’t,
our bodies slick, and wetter
than the rivers had been in months.
We were an oasis of brackish water,
alone and drenched. I licked salt from your ear.

2
The sirens cried into the light.
The fires turned to permanent shadows.
Steam rose from dead tree trunks.
Live coals seethed under thin layers of blackened bark.
I let the steam peel back the layers
of my hands, and watched it condense.
I held my palms out to children and urged them to drink.
Please, I said, there’s more where this came from.

3
The sunrise was weak against the fire,
colors of crabgrass and jaundice
evaporating against the red-orange-gray-black.
You said destruction will always win more viewers than creation.
The sun crawled behind the moon.
From her view, the world
looked like a jack-o-lantern.

4
On the third day,
they began to dilute what was left of the water
with earth. I mixed mud with my feet in large fields,
and the plows came through every hour, leaving
rows of packed dust beneath us. We guarded our spit
and licked our lips with tongues like cats.

5
A woman’s nursing child fought his way out of her arms
towards the rumors of cactus fruit and safe drinking pools.
When my falls began to outnumber my steps,
I lay in the dust and dreamed
of salt falling from your eyes.
In my dream, I told you I didn’t love you anymore
so you would cry. When I tried to lick the tears,
my tongue shriveled
and I woke up thirstier than yesterday.