by Caitlin Grace McDonnell

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.

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