Spark
by Claire Askew
Daybreak.
A foul wind skirts the house, flecked
with soot - the sun rises, molten
and ugly: a greasy torch
barely lighting the choked sky.
My bare feet are dark
against the scarred, whitewashed boards
of the porch. The red earth
is cracked. Forgotten washing
sags with smoke-damage
in scorched yards.
It started as a whisper
in the long white grass - at the end
of the field, where the snakes bask
among the rocks. I had heard the warnings
earlier, stacatto on the wireless.
The tinder-box was cool and heavy,
shifting against cotton in the pocket
of my pinafore. The letter fluttered
in my brown hands, taunting -
my tread was heavy, my heart heavy.
I had brought a skin of well-water
to the curling flames, to douse
this secret confession, twisted
and spent. But something stirred
in the dark embers. Something hungered.
It is alive now, this thing birthed
by grief in a twilit field.
It has howled all night in the plains,
the air alive with the crackling
of the brittle limbs of trees.
All night it has clawed
at the drought-parched river;
and soon some breeze or bough
will form a bridge. Trucks rattle away
through the dust, deserting me.
And soon my clapboard house
will snap and fold beneath the flames;
the clay wall will split, and crumble.
And I will stand, aghast, in the dirt -
streaked with ashen tears - and burn.
October 13th, 2007 at 9:06 pm
This is one of my favorite poems by Claire. Excellent use of form and imagery. I’m usually leery of poems that are more than 4 stanzas long because some poets tend to drag things out more than it needs to be. This is not the case in “Spark,” however. Her descriptions and diction keep the pace going.
Bravo!
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