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One Poem  

Demi Richardson

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.