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Poetry

Seatbelt

I buckled in your ashes. Not because I thought you might run away or be thrown from the car. But because even after death your weight sets off alarm bells. The kind that reminded me how it felt when you entered a room. Time to wake up. Time to take notice. 

My Prius was safe with the kids in the back. The little one napping quietly. Soft sounds of slumber from his sweet mouth. 

Until we passed by the flames engulfing. 

Not another grassland hit year after year, but the tree giants burning from the inside out. 

Even grandma, dying after a century of life, is of course not fireproof. Her flame burning up before any of us were ready. How could 100 years be too short? 

It’s all too short of course. And yet we continue to burn. 

The peach juice starts to drip down my chin. Sunshine’s warmth and the ease of a summer breeze that I can’t quite reach. Aching for shots of whisky and sex that shakes my body from the inside out. Igniting the pain with fire down my throat and through my pussy. 

Hoping that maybe I can burn it away because lord knows the tears keep coming and nothing has been extinguished yet.

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by Ariana Wolf

Creative strategist with a poet soul who owns and runs Flight Design Co. a boutique branding studio in Oakland, CA. Film photographer, mama to two littles, loves a good cup of tea, and always down for an adventure.


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