Two Poems

SELF-PORTRAIT AS THE THOMAS FIRE WITH DISPLACED LAUGH TRACK

I wake with my mother in her bed,
she’s already smoking and watching the news.
The Thomas fire undresses mountains
to the south. California closes its eyes
in a bowl of smoke. I light a cigarette and mom
moves the ashtray between us on the bed.
In the other room, a laugh track—
my brother watching TV. Every 15 seconds hahaha
like a flock of ordinary birds. How
do we account for loss, in vegetation or ash?
The body count: 2. The dog on the news runs away
and comes back to the razed foundation of her home.
Strong winds are forecast again for Wednesday— hahaha…
I’ve laughed into the firewinds of loss too,
made light of my charred parts: whole
lives carved out by the white crack of heat. I hold
my tongue to the ash, here I am
asking for nothing but what flame can give.

__________

Caitlyn Curran holds an MFA from the University of Idaho and currently lives in Portland, Oregon. Her recent work can be found in: The American Journal of Poetry, Basalt, Grist, Hubbub, Miramar, Raleigh Review, SALT, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Willow Springs and elsewhere. She was a 2018 Centrum Fellow at the Port Townsend Writers Conference and recipient of a 2019 Academy of American Poets Prize.