as a child I am sure that you were taught
that fire equals hot.
that fire equals ouch.
your mother, tapping welts into your wrists,
all for the sake of your permanence.
I can flick and switch through the widgets
of this static almanac, but for the life of me
I cannot remember my mother ever
teaching me how to play with it.
itís as if it is yesterday, and I am there
as if it were the day before;
my three-year-old cheeks are still warm
from the building, across the street, ablaze
razed and disintegrated
I was absorbed by its heat
cantering and crackling;
I didnít know that it could do that.
I didnít think that I would
Kris Hall is a writer and organizer from Seattle, WA. He is the curator for Daídaedal and SQUASH: Beats & Books. He is also the author of the chapbooks Notes for Xenos Vesparum (Shotgun Wedding) due this fall, and Dillinger on the Beach (Horse Less Press) forthcoming in the spring.
Amy Schriebman Walter
Hope in a Yellow Dress
The Best Writers
Bombed the SAT
The Money Weapon
When the Map's Crease
Becomes an Axis
Elizabeth Kate Switaj