Demi Richardson studied writing at Indiana University of Pennsylvania. Her work has been featured by The Adirondack Review, Broken Tooth Press, SLAB, and The Fem, among others. You can find links to all of her published poetry at deminicolle.wordpress.com.
California Burn Ban
Mom—something I cannot forget:
your children were in your bed again. Seven of us
piled in a heap, a tangle of small feet
and laughter. Our hair
perpetually wet, our skin humming
with sunlight. Mom,
when everyone else leaves the gathering
early,
I am still here:
in your bedroom, on
your wooden floor.
I asked my father
to describe you, and he said
hot tempered
he said shy,
he said
lonely.
Mom, I once counted eight lighters
in your room
and wondered if you wanted
to set yourself on fire.
To burn this house, and everything
in it.
Mom, all the hillsides of California seem on fire.
There are two wildfire seasons, here:
those driven by Santa Ana winds,
and those of summer months.