Smoke Water
by Rhienna Renée Guedry
Through plumes and evacuation
zones: the wildfires gave us
something else to look out for, large
and unmistakable
so we shifted our worry from
danger to danger
like weight, a baker's measure of volume,
as sure as eggs is eggs, a fire is fire,
so we prayed for rain, we studied the inversion
as it reversed a mountain’s tip
to thread its dark weather towards a valley; a heft that
can be known, and defied
Vinegar and honey to
soothe
the throat
as light haloed above us in umber and ochre,
painter’s colors crusted with neglect, we transformed
each dry surface with vessels of water,
steamed rosemary and mint to recharge the
cigarette-fingered perception of life indoors, we
Left out bowls of water for
birds and squirrels, bowls
of water like hymns—some
for them
and some for us—and with
purpose for ten days, we forgot to worry
About the other disaster, fixed
instead on our hollow of bad air, breath
shallow with careful no-coughs, we kept still and
kept mouths covered, certain and manageable, which
reminded us of fire drills: when to lower
our bodies, when test doorknobs
The thing is, we won't remember how
it felt, wearing our masks inside,
just like I didn’t remember how
a small boat made its way through my childhood home
during its second flood,
hovering over brown water
I wore a mask then, too:
pulled it down to eat a banana the Red Cross
tossed us from their truck after the storm
I didn't even remember that it had happened until
I took my mask down to
eat figs thirty years later—some
parts they keep themselves hidden
certainty is the myth
we let
go
Rhienna Renée Guedry is a queer writer and artist who found her way to the Pacific Northwest, perhaps solely to get use of her vintage outerwear collection. Her work has been featured in Empty Mirror, HAD, Gigantic Sequins, Bitch Magazine, and elsewhere. Rhienna is currently working on her first novel. Find more about her projects at rhienna.com or @cajunsparkle_ on Twitter.