It's a small
swirl, an eddy
that cannot be
said to inhabit
the whole river.
To be described
is to know that
dad was a broken
person, like the
rest of us kids. It's
an inevitable thing,
for a tumbleweed
to break limbs. There
are cars and gusts and
snakes. Snakes, however,
know to get out of the way.
I never knew to get out of
the way. It's like I like to be
struck by the tines of the
pines. Their acupuncture
fails to pierce my piecemeal
chest. And yet these trees
best me as they burst me,
lighting me like a trick
candle, a single green
flame. I smell my own
ozone, even as I smolder,
smoking like a chimney
in a long-burnt-down
house.
Roman Ryan 