Burnt
Everything withered, the pear flowers
shriveled like onion leaves.
The grass beneath my bare heels
crackles as if I were stepping
on sheaves of dried corn.
My prize lily, blooming madly in June,
when the fireflies dipped
into its abundant petals
has wilted to a few crumpled leaves,
an emaciated stalk.
Rain, rain,
the blue jay screeches.
Rain whispers
the willow,
even the river is too low
to paddle.
I am grateful for the moths
thumping at the midnight pane,
for the night-flying bat.
I almost hear the earth
absorbing darkness,
the distant whistle as the train
clatters over the bridge,
trusses creaking and swaying
beneath its weight.
No breath of wind stirs a leaf.
Dry, so dry,
my mouth
thirsts for a drink,
my lips
hurt,
sore and waiting
for the kiss of water,
and my heart beats
fast and hard.
I feel it sear
with all the longing,
all the want
of a lifetime.
Rosalie Sanara Petrouske received her M.A. in English and Writing from Northern Michigan University in Marquette, Michigan. She is an Adjunct Professor in the English Department at Lansing Community College, where she currently teaches Freshman Composition and Creative writing classes. Finishing Line Press published her second book of poems What We Keep in 2016. She wrote the poem “Burnt” about an unusual long and hot Michigan summer, but it’s also about want, and about the things you might want, and never have.
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