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The first time I saw the
sky purring red
I was seven and wrapped in my parka. My uncle
Jake carried me with one hand
over my nose and mouth. The scratch
of wool scarf and stale smell of Pall Mall. Legs
dangling in the jaws of night. Tusks of ice
sliding under my cuffs. Pointing up to the moon,
he gripped my ankle and I saw something
had eaten down to the marrow, stirring a deep red
I had only seen rising from the furnace
of the dragon in my dreams. I closed my eyes
when airplanes took off, too. I was afraid
they would explode and I would be the one
they blamed. And now the moon...
One night last November I let the dogs out—I had to
coax them into the open mouth of the yard, the cold
gravel hungry for warm paws and steaming excrement,
usually deposited on the other side of the fence,
in the alley. There was a red glow
that appeared to me like the girl next door
or her date was stepping on the brake pedal
while fumbling at a bra strap or a belt. I closed my eyes
and imagined what it was like the first time
inside the furnace, the air rushing from the lungs,
mixing with the magic from some unknown organ, the surge
of fire up the long throat, how every person needs
burning. For the first time,
I looked up and instead of the moon, there was a white
curtain, and the sky was purring the same
somehow, as when I was seven. Only for a minute
did I see the Northern Lights. And then the sky closed
with no applause. Nothing
purring the same again.
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