Self-Portrait with BonfireHere, the body exists as burnt logs, as butane leaked across the grass. Ignite, the skin says to the illegible sky. There are seven ways to cross between streets. A dirt bike ramp made of cow skulls. A tire swing attached to pine needles, & five cardinal directions from one space to the next. When we were young & still fraught with heat, the bonfire collapsed, rolled us nearly to death. Listen when the winds cry foul, when smoke pushes you against dream. Which ash sings of violence is a question the grass does not want answered. Justin Carter is the co-editor of Banango Street. The winner of the 2014 Sonora Review Prize, his poems appear or will appear in The Collagist, Hobart, Jellyfish, & Ninth Letter. He holds degrees from Houston & Bowling Green & can be found online at justinrcarter.tumblr.com. |