Peachfire
If a late autumn sun twists in peachfire light,
the ocean shows off, shapeshifting to mist,
and the wind comes from China to lift my hair,
I'm only earthbound, the same day wrenching
a busted water pump until my skin is ripped,
as my hand slips, and I swell, coiled to curse,
my 5-year-old daughter nearby, flitting after
butterflies in frantic orbit of lantana bushes —
even the afternoon air offers stories to tell —
so, what the hell, I smile, knuckles bleeding,
wondering if my Mexican gardener is with me
on this — seven kids, in a small, leased house,
the garage subrented by Jorge to day laborers —
this unspeakable envelope of the world, and
how it is, our rage firehosed by little girls
punctuating the day in effortless perfection?
Is it merely wealth that saved me, Jorge?
Can I accept this happiness, or is it owed?
There's a fate coming after me, one day,
as bill collector for an unbalanced world.
But, isn't it up to me to mesmerize us
with a father's wish for a planet thinning
life into final baldness, and up to you
to still crave hard-won enchantment?
Do you have Mayan magic songs for me?
Your poverty, my heart disease, serve
as payment for a power on this Earth
that can erect dreams straight and fast
as the tilt-up concrete industrial parks
crabbing over these easy coastal plains.
Another moment gone, let us be changed,
to act far beyond our meager instruction,
and both of us get this one thing done.
© John Kilroy
