Burn Zone, Six Years After the Fire

At first all you notice are the charred
branches sticking this way and that
like an x-ray of life, naked without
their familiar brush, wood bones
marking summers past, hands sticky
with sweat and sunscreen must have
touched that trunk, now lying sideways
creating a log home for slugs.
You catch yourself bargaining their grief
thinking everything could have stayed
just the same, as if wanting
is like understanding, as if,
after you quiet your stubborn heart,
you can pretend you don’t see
the new reds, greens and yellows
big and bright in their smallness
embracing their unexpected
time in the sun.


Photograph and Poem by Sahra Kuper.

Sahra Kuper was born in Boulder, CO. She holds a BA from Hampshire College and studied writing at the University of Alabama’s MFA Creative Writing Program. She has been published in Wheelhouse Magazine and Even More Monologues for Women by Women. She is a writer, poet and career counselor living in Boston, MA.