Bonfires

Folder: 
Sorrow

They burn witches in
quiet cul de sacs
with cashmere lawns
and SUVs
and lives crocheted
like doilies one
dream at a time.

 

The accused are tried
in courts they never
enter,
their names dunked
till every letter is
mud and water.

 

Some days I can only
believe in silence
and I wish I could find
some soft words shining
there in the grass like
a dime or lost keys
as I pass through the
parallel worlds of lake
and sky,
their silent mockery
competing for clarity,
reveling in what they
keep hidden.

 

Hidden.

 

some hidden things are
sublime,
like God behind that sky,
like roots that mine
the earth for life;
other hidden things like
snakes and words,
all fangs and hypnotic eyes,
tongues and fire,
behind the trenches,
pluck out lives
one by one.

 

Do they see
my name spelled
out in smoke,
my heart a torch that
snuffs the timid day?

 

by Patricia Joan Jones

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