Author. Artist. Activist. Adventurer.

Prologue to Where the Fire Met the Water

by Angelea Hayes

It’s the flicker of silent energy

Quivering from the top of each block of wax,

From which a sultry tear trails to pool

On the dinner table, where it will later harden

When it’s time to retreat into sleep.

It’s the ghostly gray trails curling into the sky,

Peeling off from the flowing scarlet embers

That caress the dismembered carcass of a tree

And dissipate with the wind,

Or get sucked into your wind pipes.

You enjoy the oaky aroma enveloping the laughter

Of those around you, mixing with the static noise,

And echoing into the chill night,

While the hot tongues lick the soft, sugary, sweets

We all crave, kept distant at the end

Of sticks that you twist in your hands.

You love it, you respect it,

But you wouldn’t dare touch it.

Because it’s also the billowing tufts that peek over

As you round the top of the bridge, driving toward

The towering folds in Earth’s blanket

Bordering your hometown,

Cottony contorting clouds

Ascending past the jagged skyline,

A hellish combustion

Trying to suffocate the hillside.

A more hostile scent is carried

Down the street to your apartment,

Tinting the air.

You wonder how many people

Will be forced to flee

This time.

It’s also the incessant blaring, coupled

With the raps on your door to rouse

You and your roommate,

To frantically pack and stumble outside

To see the livid sky bubbling and bending over you,

And retreat with the masses to the cafeteria.

It’s the yellow suits, the badges, the walkie talkies,

The emergency flashlights and blankets

Rolled out on the floor where students usually dine,

The raspy white masks, the roar of blades above you.

It’s the flakes of remorse that fall

From the sky to coat the world,

And the odor that stains your clothes,

Your skin, your hair,

Even after you are long gone

From the place where the fire met the water.