8 November 2008 | Vol. 8, No. 3

The Salt Cedar Fires of '08

by NORMAN DUBIE

She said in the dark church kitchen

that the moon was on her

and so she put her last clean sock up inside her,

that she slept last night

in an automobile, was sober

but wouldn't be much longer,

that the fires choked her—

the smoke, she thought, was greasy

and intolerable like Phoenix itself.

The Navajo, whom she admired,

said this town

was hell at the level of seawater.

She adjusted a shoulder

and regretted once more

not being a blonde. Though she was

insisted the deacon. She lifted her

hem to him and smiled

like Cavafy chewing an olive.