A Skyline Slaughtered

At the top of the stairs mama hums to the beat
of the smoke invading the western horizon. An essayist
writes on the commodification of movement, and the
radio recites names of planes eaten alive. What are we
to do with all this leftover future?

In the East, a grandfather sings to the prairie
crocus. Smoke coughs into the breeze, and his song
turns howl turns plea turns dirge. Sepia tangles itself
across yellow birch—panicked, it strangles whatever
breaths remain wedged between a metallic bark.

In the corridors, we shove remaining days in our
coat pockets. I spoke to a friend, who heard from some
girl, whose uncle lives out East, claimed his thickets
became matches. Witnessed weeds ignite without flint and
steel. How can grief be so torrential with nothing washed clean?

At the top of the stairs mama hums to the beat
of the smoke invading the eastern horizon. A radio
announcement catches itself on the popcorn ceiling.
Is it possible to diagnose land with thrombosis—
that is to say, this land is clogged with our own undoing?

---

Mary Kelly is an Aotearoa-born poet now residing in Vancouver. Mary is a University of British Columbia graduate and a current poetry student at the Writers’ Studio. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Yolk, Poetry Aotearoa Yearbook, Vallum Magazine, Canadian Literature, and elsewhere.