heat rises

julianne holmquist | Spring 2021

Smokey haze diffused through 
The once golden air, 
And shut out the gaze of 
the disappointed red sun. 
The hanging fog in the South 
Spins my mind around and 
Feel like it's landed in the North. 
Each element reveals a layer 
of this disorienting myth. 
Gold heated changes state, 
turns red and starts to drip, 
Pooling and cascading, 
down the edges of an iron table, 
burning our toes. Boiling our soles with lost promises. 
The warm ashen blanket 
makes my world feel smaller. 
As I exhale a sacred breath 
into the poisoned air, 
I sigh my one question, 
cracking through the discolored sky:
"When will we realize how sunken we are?"