Nate Chappell

Controlled Burn

What happens when fertile
Land goes unused or
When my face feels too soft like
That half rotten plum you left out
To quietly ferment on the counter?
 
In eighty years or less someone will say
“This cadaver is mistaken”
And I will be wheeled into purgatory
Just as confused as you are. Best I can explain is
 
Lately my body is a forest fire.
Far too comfortable in the brush,
My redwood shoulders wield
Hands like oven mitts on the end
Of each branch- burn marked and clumsy.
 
Forever melting or standing too
Tall; nevertheless I’m hiding behind strangers
While you flounder like the gas station attended
Who called me “boss” before realizing
His grave error.
 
In either case I’ll pay doctors to carve out everything
That made me kind and leave behind
Only brute force and chin hair.
Maybe then I will be happy
Or maybe then I will just be less.
 
Today I’m finding myself in power
Lines and orange peels.
In yesterday’s stale tea and drugstore greeting cards,
Adopt-a-highway signs and my brother’s laugh.
Today I’m finding myself in doctors offices
And the letter my therapist promised to write for them.
 
If it’s true that forests need fire like a snake
Needs to moult, I will be hickory or
Wood chips or unsuspecting chipmunks or pine.
Twenty two years of learning to leave.
Unbecoming and messy, blistering
Sun on newborn skin or the
Longest goodbye.
 
If it’s true I will be burning forever and
If it’s true I will be better for it.