As the booms in the distance start,
the dog darts around the yard in alarm,
from the flame of the bonfire to the citronella
flicking on the wood table, to whatever draws
her under the house with relentless dark
fascination day after day. The moon’s a sly
smirk and the night envelops the lake. Can’t
see the light show, just the trees, huddling
with concern, birds shrieking, frogs creaking:
yeah, we told you, yeah, it’s gonna get worse.
We burn things we want to be free of:
Patriarchy, screens, self-judgment. What
happens to ink on paper as it burns?
What happens to the words? I read
in Mississippi, they are thinking of training
dogs to sniff out pregnancy hormones
in women leaving the state. Boom
in the distance, dark trees, still lake.
It is not yet clear what will be asked
of us. Bug zap in the blue light.
And what we’re prepared to do.
