BY HOLLY DAY
Copyright is held by the author.
The coffins float to the surface
like rebellious architecture, buoyed by the floodwaters
that have shaken everything loose. We pass sandbags
hand over hand to build a wall between us and the river
shouting panicked instructions to the trucks to bring more.
The water pouring in from the river is frigid and cold
numbing ankles and hands, but the water
running off of the bloated cemetery is warm, as though the water
is carrying the last breath and embrace of the dead
across the grounds to keep us from freezing.
The Book Bonfire, of Which I was Not a Part But Heard About the Next Day
The books burn quickly, fill the air with the burning
of tiny insects and mildew spores, ancient glue and
cracked leather. Words glow bright on pages before
paper catches fire, being of a more conductive medium.
You could almost read the stories as they exploded with light, if you
could just freeze the moment of time between the pages first heating up
and finally catching fire. In the dark, large-print titles flash
briefly, incompletely, before shuddering into monochrome piles of ash.