IMAGES OF THE OREGON APOCALYPSE

 by Tricia Knoll

Scientists say that the wildfires in the West combined with drought and record heat waves could be triggering one of the Southwest’s largest migratory bird die-offs in recent decades. Photo Credit: Allison Salas/New Mexico State University via The New York Times, September 15, 2020

Is there any reason to write anything today
when ink on paper looks like soot
fallen from a malignant sky? The oneness
we dream about flies in this wind: their house
of forty years, the plastic wading pool and hose,
rake, car, Bible, gramma’s wedding pictures,
ash of curtain, ash of couch, ash of rug,
the soot is a negative of what all they had. 

How many dead birds have you ever seen
in your life? One or two bounced off a window?
Maybe your cat was a bad actor or you
were the bad actor that let your cat roam.
But piles of the dead? The migrating dead
won’t be back next year. We didn’t really
know exactly how they found their way
in the first place.

Such great weariness. With flimsy masks.
Stay inside to not be sick – you’ve followed
that mantra for months. You can’t outwalk
this cloud. Or see from one bridge to the next.
The firefighters sleep in peril. And wake
in dark fatigue. You check your air numbers
every hour and somewhere else is flooding
under winds that twirl the birds. 

Tricia Knoll is a Vermont poet who lived in Portland, Oregon for 45 years. She is checking in with her friends under evacuation watches, hears of one who lost her home and sees the images with great sadness.

AIR QUALITY INDEX: 519

by Devon Balwit

SEATTLE, WA - SEPTEMBER 12: A man wearing a mask walks along Kerry Park as smoke from wildfires fills the air on September 12, 2020 in Seattle, Washington. According to the National Weather Service, the air quality in Seattle remained at "unhealthy" levels Saturday after a large smoke cloud from wildfires on the West Coast settled over the area. (Photo by Lindsey Wasson/Getty Images via Seattle PI)

Take a deep breath, the meditation app advises—
I breathe in. I only cough a little.
I can’t see my chickens although I know they’re there.
The redwood’s ghostly one house over.

I breathe in. I only cough a little.
The front door gaps. We keep meaning to fix it.
The redwood’s ghostly one house over.
My usual view is lost to fog.

The front door gaps. We keep meaning to fix it.
Tendrils seep in, the smell of burning.
My usual view is lost to fog.
It’s like London in 1952.

Tendrils seep in, the smell of burning.
I wear a headlamp when I walk the dog.
It’s like London in 1952.
Thousands died. I don’t want to.

I wear a headlamp when I walk the dog.
I pray the coming rain will make a difference.
Thousands died. I don’t want to.
I worry for the mailman, the UPS lady with her dog biscuits.

I pray the coming rain will make a difference.
So many acres are aflame. The firefighters can’t be everywhere.
I worry for the mailman, the UPS lady with her dog biscuits.
The hummingbirds’ wings whisk smoke.

Too many acres are aflame. The firefighters can’t be everywhere.
I can’t see my chickens although I know they’re there.
The hummingbirds’ wings whisk smoke.
Take a deep breath, the meditation app advises—

When not teaching, Devon Balwit chases chickens in the Pacific Northwest. She has two collections forthcoming: Rubbing Shoulders with the Greats [Seven Kitchens Press, 2020] and Dog-Walking in the Shadow of Pyongyang [Nixes Mate Books, 2020]. 

$1 AN HOUR TO FIGHT LARGEST FIRE IN CA HISTORY

by Ann Bracken

About 1,500 inmates in California prisons are helping the state fight wildfires, including the Camp Fire, for several dollars a day. Yet after inmates with firefighting experience are released, doors at fire departments are often closed. Photo Credit: Stephen Lam/Reuters) —The New York Times, November 15, 2018

Because I’m a prisoner, I put my life on the line
for $2.00 a day + $1.00 an hour when I’m        fighting fires.
I’ve protected California
I saved thousands of dollars’ worth of property—

 I’ve got training in wildland firefighting.
And           I’d love to be a firefighter when I get out.
But I need a few fire science credits
                        &                                 some college courses.
The biggest problem staring me down?
I can’t get licensed
as an EMT
because I have a record.

What kind of sense does that make?
—if all my training and experience
is enough to fight fires          while I’m incarcerated,
it should be enough to fight fires                            once I’m free.

You know how I could live if I was a real firefighter?
I could give my children a sweet little house
Maybe even send them to college                       if I made the $74,000 a year
like a regular firefighter.

You know how I first got here?
I worked in the office, but after awhile,
I knew too much
so they moved me outside to work landscaping.
But I’m real allergic to poison oak.
So if I breathe poison oak in the air
my throat can close up
& I could die.             I figured I might as well be on the fire line if that was the case.

I didn’t volunteer to go to prison.
I didn’t volunteer to go to fire camp
and fight fires.
I volunteer to reduce my time—I
I want to go back to my family
to my children.

Ann Bracken is an activist with a pen. She’s started over more times than she can count and believes that she possesses a strong gene for reinvention driving her desire for change. She’s changed her job and her mind, but never wavers from her commitment to family, friends, writing, and social justice. She’s authored two poetry collections—The Altar of Innocence and No Barking in the Hallways: Poems from the Classroom, serves as a contributing editor for Little Patuxent Review, and co-facilitates a Wilde Readings Poetry Series in Columbia, MD. Her poetry, essays, and interviews have appeared in anthologies and journals, including Bared: Contemporary Poetry & Art on Bras & Breasts, Fledgling Rag, and Texture among others. Ann’s poetry has garnered two Pushcart Prize nominations. She offers writing workshops in prisons and community education centers.

THE FATHER IN SUMMER PLAINETH FOR HIS SON

by Cally Conan-Davies






O western fire
Take this day back
Reverse the truck
Unburn the wreck.
The fire fighters
Of the forest service
Hell-bent to save us,
Rain down on them,
Drown every forest plant.
Then bring him home,
Because for every day to come
I can't.


Cally Conan-Davies hails from Tasmania. Her poems can be found in periodicals such as The Hudson Review, Subtropics, Poetry, Quadrant, The New Criterion, The Virginia Quarterly Review, The Sewanee Review, The Southwest Review, The Dark Horse,  Harvard Review and various online journals.