Spring Fire

by Makenna Dykstra

The magnolia tree in front of my house catches

spring fire with no warning on the same day

my forefinger blooms an angry life-giving red.

Blind faith is our only chance at survival,

so I put my finger in my mouth because once

a friend told me that saliva is a natural antiseptic.

My teeth are stained pink and my head spins with heat –

that’s how she finds me, brought to collapse with

a combination of hemophobic adrenaline and 

knowledge of the dust that decorates our ceiling fan.

We curate these morsels of existence on a single blade.

A museum dedicated to those who cannot speak their

own forgotten name. Maybe I could crawl up there

among the mites and diasporic ash and fall asleep.

Would anyone even notice?

It was New Orleans’ first bloom of the season,

a week after the freeze. Snow petals each admired and

wrought unique swirl like kaleidoscope glass on dead branches.

The tree is an escaped renegade refusing to follow suit

as the earth curves deference to the sweet warmth of the sun.

Instead, it sheds flurries that cover my porch in white

while the rest of the city simmers in sweat. Life is a lesson

in postponing sleep. To entertain myself, I have a bad habit

of forgetting to look before I step into the street. Certainty

remains far too predictable. The blossoms are brown now.

I notice.