Pine Dark, after Natalie Diaz

by Jesse Breite

As the sun recalls its beams
and the light spears elsewhere,
the fireflies burn and fade
between pines in the backyard.

Among the green shadows,
I hear my sister whisper my name,
and now I see her smoking back there,
the fire floating hand to mouth.

I open the backdoor and ask,
Jane, you want to come inside?
She leans her head back, says No.
She’s waiting for someone.

Not me, I say to the dying green.
The Devil whispers her name,
and now I see them waltzing out back.
Their feet smoke searing magnolia roots. 

 

Jesse Breite’s recent poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Tinderbox, Poetry Northwest, Terrain and Rhino. His first full-length poetry collection is forthcoming from Fernwood Press. He teaches high school in Atlanta, Georgia, where he lives with his wife and two kids. More of his work can be found here, and you can read his previous poem in Deep South here.