Rebecca Givens Rolland
Late evening, metals bolstering our houses finish acting like anything but themselves. Bauxite, copper, rods we bored into under aegis of trees: forgetting injected fluid, cracks in unwitting steel. Years later, a landmine excavates us—crack-seal veins bubbling up, flaring out—formations pressurized from inside. Silica lingers in brushed air. Silos empty to wind, grainy clouds we hardly see. Is breath our only hopeful model? Is exhaling our exit strategy? Sand has lied to us. Irritants take our guts over. We weep frost. Our children scoop sky. We recite our wedding, their births, this fire. Soon we’re snowed under: silt umbrella shields us from visible rain. Our play circles, losing rhythm. One child rings rosies, shakes her shovel in chemicals too cautious for palms. All the world’s time and money. Every gold coin tail-flipped. Nothing to save.