ash street

when we were small, the house next door

set ablaze and choked the evening

air—we sat on the street and watched

the flames lick

along doorways and through windows,

blowing glass out in sighs

watched the roof gasp and

cave, as the jagged walls screamed

for the sky, but i felt safe

and quiet under the forgiving cedars

who knew me so well

i’d grown up watching foxes lurk

at their roots,

rabbits jumping invisible through the dusk—

i hope you know

your wife waited patiently

for your triumphant exit—

in a blaze of sun, you’d emerge

smiling and soot-covered,

wearing the shirt she gave you

and you’d laugh and mourn and return

to the rolling fields that cradled you

years later and the land has been razed and

packaged, but i still hear the embers crackling

and the cedars remind me of watching

memories eaten alive

i do my best to hold them

though i fear i am too thin and too unreliable

to keep you with me

i will carry what i can ‘til i am swallowed

too

Ari Zimmerman is a writer and editor currently residing in Tiohtià:ke. She completed a BA in English literature and philosophy from McGill University, and is now pursuing an MA in English literature at Concordia University. Her work is influenced by her experience growing up in rural Ontario, and explores queerness, illness, loneliness and madness. She’s fond of writing about all things weird, uncanny and disgusting.