ELEGY
The poet quit her teaching job
on the East Coast, flew back
to a ranch surrounded by
vineyards her father had
left her—old vines of Pinot Noir
she would harvest and sell
to local vintners who made
names for themselves—labels
familiar to us amateurs
who cared enough
to know how many points
Wine Spectator gave
certain vintages—scores
printed on tiny cards stuck
to cases stacked up
at boutique liquor stores
we could walk our dogs
to. She too had retrievers
racing alongside horses
and other four-leggeds
before they burned
alive inside her barn
struck by wildfires
while she slept—the winds
changed directions that fast.
Go to bed one person
and wake up another, watch
volunteer firefighters
put out the flames, no time
to gather up her things—
things she would return
to fetch when it was safe
to come back. The blackened
loam and charred hills
would recover. Certain seeds
split open only if
the ground is hot enough.
Nature has a long game,
she said, her mind slowly
unhinged. Somehow seeing
animals destroyed like that,
unable to stampede out
of weathered boards
consumed in an instant—
mere matchsticks a child
got tired of playing with
sent floating down
a creek no one pictured
would ever run dry isn’t even
the half of it. Hearing horses
scream like that, horses
she rode high along ridges
as she surveyed a paradise
her father had left her—
she never really recovered
from that kind of shock,
her sister said. I remember
when she quit her job to go
back West. I remember
the envy I felt when she got
her teaching post, feeling it
again when she gave it up,
I who had yet to receive
my inheritance. Only now
she’s dead and buried
somewhere on her property
after having suffered
a drawn-out agony, my envy
so petty. No compassion.
Jealous when a book of hers
came out—she had it
so easy—barely making it
past her sixtieth birthday.
No chance to patch things up
when the cancer did her in.
She gathered together
one final book, a thick one
that got a starred review
from a place most of us
despised. Seems so trivial
when scorched over earth
is once again in the fire’s path,
myself so far away from
posted apocalyptic pics
as I surf my socially
distanced life. Funny
how we simply stopped
talking when she got on
a plane to come and see
my husband’s art opening—
a modest group show
featuring a drawing of his
that never sold. Can’t
remember what it
looked like, only that she
was bored, would I mind
if we got out of there?
So we dropped her off
at some hotel in a swank
part of town, saying,
why did you even bother
showing up? I don’t regret
a thing, in fact was glad
when I saw her place had
burned down. Heard about it
through hearsay. Her horses
haunting me still, the way
their deaths had managed
to finish her off. Nor is there
anything I can do about
those wildfires burning now,
my brother posting pics—
an orange noon-day eclipse
threaded through the Golden
Gate as he tries to walk
his dogs—ashes collecting
in a garden spider’s web.
