Wildfire in Simi Valley


By Ruth Bavetta



Moon dismantled,
sun a red disk, reflecting

sea a rusty mudflat,
hot wind hollowing

canyons, hills littered
with dust, ash, soot,

chaparral, squirrels, palm trees,
shingles, Chevrolets, dictionaries,

wedding dress, quilt stitched
by a grandmother fifty years ago,

the bones of those who stayed,
the hopes of those who fled.

Close the windows.


This poem previously appeared in 10×3 Plus


About the Author: Ruth Bavetta writes at a messy desk overlooking the Pacific Ocean.Her poems have appeared in Rattle, Nimrod, Tar River Review, North American Review and many other journals and anthologies. Her books are Fugitive Pigments (Future Cycle Press, 2013) Embers on the Stairs (Moontide Press, 2014,) Flour Water Salt (Future Cycle Press, 2016.) and No Longer at This Address (Aldritch Books 2017.) She likes the light on November afternoons, the music of Stravinsky, the smell of the ocean. She hates pretense, fundamentalism and sauerkraut.

This entry was posted in Ruth Bavetta and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Wildfire

  1. atenni says:

    I love the progression from the harm to the natural world to loss of personal possessions. The last two stanzas make this a poem that will stay in memory. I’ll be sharing this, Ruth. I love sauerkraut, but we agree on most things.

  2. Rose Mary Boehm says:

    Very poignant indeed.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s