On the way home
from Tina’s detention, air smokes
like fire ate flowers, a whole field
of wild, colors stolen for ash.
“Why on Earth did you swallow those moths?”
Tina’s mother asks.
“You ate Lee’s entire science project.
All stages!” she exclaims,
before the car returns to silence.
Tina remains numb like words
were never invented. No, like words
were invented once, but confiscated.
“To feel something,” Tina thinks, then whispers
to her reflection in the window.
“Grandma said I could be anything.
I want to be the light.”
— REECE ROWAN GRITZMACHER
Reece Rowan Gritzmacher lives in a Northern Arizona mountain town surrounded by ponderosa pines, but grew up hugging mossy trees in the Pacific Northwest. Their poetry and prose have appeared or are forthcoming on Barrelhouse, About Place Journal, Chapter House Journal, and elsewhere. They work at a public library and serve on the board of the Northern Arizona Book Festival.