The hospital where my grandmother died
collects sunsets and zephyrs across town.
The Ohio River runs mindless as Lethe nearby.

I know someone who fell
from the bridge.  He plunged
into that hopeless channel

where catfish grow the size of cars.
I know someone who lost control,
drove down the banks, barely made it out

alive.  West winds wear a path
through town.  People start to feel safe,
despite the threat of a storm that lags behind.

Survival is a matter of calculation.
One summer, a barge loaded with fireworks
exploded.  People leapt off the deck

into their mirror images, ripples
and flames, an unholy flower blooming
in darkness, only complete upon reflection.

Downriver, a chemical plant radiates
night with sodium light, as though something alien
landed in a field, how it makes a flowing

river glow.  My grandmother used to call a breeze
a promise.  I’ve been known to watch it dance
on the surface of deeper waters.
                        

Frenetic is my word
for fire, a wild crackle
in my bipolar brain.
Thoughts rush through these walls swift
with the speed of light.  I stir coals in the wood stove
to see sparks rise like fireflies,
which is a word so untrue,
yet so passionate.  Inferno
is my word for love, a burning
that you can’t control.  Embers rise and drift,
seethe and sizzle.  Something wild can happen,
can turn your body to ash,
leave you breathless in the rising
heat.  Sunburst is my word for mania, a jittery feeling
in the spine.  Flames climb fast as angels
making a run for Heaven,
knowing sometimes the only end
is otherwise.  Otherwise is my word for anything
I can’t imagine.  Which is a burning lie.  And fire
is my word for faith,
my word for knowing something
better burns this tinder, something else
takes root and grows.