Fires & Floods
By Despy Boutris
The night is hot as hell.
Really. The heatwave is so bad
that street signs are melting
like ice cream
and scorpions are taking dips
in the local pool, desperate
for a little relief. Last Tuesday,
I baked a cookie on the hood
of my truck, watched
the chocolate chunks bubble
under the sun.
I can’t touch the steering wheel
without the risk
of second-degree burns,
and the winds are so strong
that I’ve lost two sunhats
and the whole state smells of smoke.
News of the fires and floods
keeps pouring in: down south,
a city lies half-submerged in water,
and, here, dozens of houses burn.
Too hot for even shorts,
we strip off our dresses
and collapse on the grass
by the lake. When you turn
onto your stomach, I want
to touch the sweat pooling
in the valley of your spine.
I want to rub our bodies together,
make a house of flames
before this whole place goes
up in smoke. Fire, in my experience,
is a stronger force than water,
and we’re all branches
waiting to be burned.