Tacoma

Maggie Flaherty

On the side of a Lutheran church,

a dozen dahlias: five purpled heads,

              seven rusty reds on spindled stems.

                      In the corner, against rough brick

              and crumbled mortar, a few ragged

      sports lift yellow spikes—stamened

pikes thrust from yellow moats

        and parched leaves. Hidden there,

                    two old bees, dinged wings back,

                        drag rear legs, hair combs laden

            with pollen for the Queen’s half-dead

    entourage. Why am I squatting here,

triaging dahlias? Far off, fires burn.

        Cascades’ canyons crisp and curl.

                    This very morning, I looked for

                                Mt. Rainier’s snowy stinger

                    pricking the line between sky

        and firs that ascend the mountain’s

flanks in search of melt. Or so

        I imagine, my lungs catching

                    on cinder fragments cloaking

                            the mountain view, choking

                my sore villi, like bees’ legs

        atremble in a thickness

hard to describe; air so

        heavy only short words

                    escape, nearly breathless:

                                Awake! Awake! The closer

                    I look, the more I see this earth—

        this present moment—burning.

Where’s a gust of healing rain,

        a soothing wind that lifts

                   or sets us down gently?