High in Fire Country

Caravaggio, Narcissus, circa 1600, oil on canvas, Galleria Nazionale d'Arte Antica

Treeless hills, wrinkled flesh.
Walking with emphasis, toting
laptop and luggage, I crush
the miles and arrive panting.
The inn features women brisk
as my mood. The dread of fire
swarming through the brassy weeds

sobers even the hardcore drinkers
whom I join at the bar. Evening
gathers its many folds, settles
on the yellow slopes, friendly
but wary like everyone else.
I hope to spend a few days here,
writing in a top-floor bedroom,

writing the one fatal memoir
for which the world holds its breath.
I’ll confess the anarchy of dreams,
the rejection of family ties,
the rough corrugations of sex.
I’ll leave my laptop glowing
so the maid will peer into it

and become so inspired she’ll chuck
her drippy boyfriend and light out
for the territories, grasping
her life in both hands. The bar
glitters with a hundred bottles
of liquor, each my favorite.
The barmaid looks too upright

to allow the shyest little flirt.
I sip my bourbon and settle
into myself despite the cry
of fire a hundred miles away,
a disaster that won’t spread this far
until I finish writing my book
and print it on my eager flesh.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Dogs Don’t Care (2022).  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.