The valley is on fire

Years ago, I watched news coverage of a California wildfire on television and asked myself, "What would I take with me in a fire?" Of course, I had to up the ante, so I tossed in a little more tension. This was the resulting poem. 

It's actually an amazing mental exercise: if all of your peeps and pets were safe, what belongings would you take with you? Set your own boundaries (car or carry, etc.) and answer the question yourself. Maybe the answer is your next poem.


The valley is on fire

and it comes as no surprise

to me.  I grew fond of the dense

grainy sunset, and the ashes

on the porch were a welcome

sight.  They helped me think.

But my eyelid still twitches

when I get the empty boxes from the trunk

of my Chevy, and when the cat scratches

her litter I freeze, sure

it is your tires crunching up the gravel

driveway.  I’m not a coward, but I know

my strengths.  You are not among

them.  So I pack first the things

for which I would burn — Mother’s

jewelry, the cat’s medicine, my

notebooks.

The wind picks up.  Now I smell

the fur of those to small to outrun

the quick snapping flames.

I lift the drawers

from the dresser, turning them

upside down and giving them a shake

or two — not because they

need it, but because I need

the finality of a shake.  You have

taught me well. 

And when the litterbox

is stacked on the Samsonite in the back seat

and my galoshes are wedged next

to the spare tire and my ten favorite

books are tucked in with the linen

and Nana’s typewriter presses against

the picnic basket below the cat and carrier

up front next to me, I’ll start

out of the valley, before the fire reaches

what was always your home anyway.

- by Chris Fow Cohen

© Chris Fow Cohen. All rights reserved.