Wildfire

For three days, yellow haze has enveloped 

the coast, bathing this city in unease,

coating our narrowing throats. Another year 

has passed without you. Today, your daughter, 

now ten, asked if you left a note. 

More questions will come. 

It is  June, and I have never been brave.

Wildfires can cast their smoke across borders 

but you stay dead. My grief stalls 

at the edges of every map, a hammer 

demanding I find new ways to remain a nail.

No one can say for sure how long 

the forests will burn. I am finally less angry. 

This feels like something else to mourn. 

What will fill my lungs? 

Stay inside, they say on the news. 

Save your breath and imagine coordinates

that do not exist. Be an obedient nail.

Shut the windows tight, and wait.