Removed from a snowbank the previous winter
like a tropical fish from under the ice. Made central
by virtue of what the room lacked—it was
the embers, the last licks of whatever had cleared
the rest of her things away. Brush fires
flared up throughout the interior again that summer,
whole neighbourhoods were set ablaze.
Families lit candles for soldiers patrolling
a faraway desert, and the monarch butterfly returned
in abundance, wings smearing windshields
along the country's major arteries. A friend called:
“It's a big world, Doug. Let's get you out of the house,
what do you say?” But the chair was where he chose
to sit. With no foreseeable end to our need
to control the elements, here was a fire contained.

 

 

Nick Thran's book, Every Inadequate Name, is published by Insomniac Press. We ordered from Duthie on West 4th, but the bastards are giving us the runaround. We're pretty stoked, all the same.

Published On: March 30, 2007
Permanent Location: http://www.forgetmagazine.com/vol4/070320.htm