I like these natural disasters,
the damage turns us into a
gasping symphony, the largest
choir of bodies at half-mast.
When we’re all mirrors,
I feel whole again,
feel myself sitting in the wooden pew
with you beside me, our hands clasped
around remote controls,
our faces lit up by identical
images at identical times.
Without speaking, we recite
the same psalm of
dread and worry. When
the flames lick up every inch
of Hollywood like candy,
we enter an ancient feeling,
a collective holiness,
our divisions null and void
until tomorrow.
Carlee Klipsun is a disabled writer and artist from the Pacific Northwest now living in rural Georgia. Her previous written work has been published by Muse-Pie Press’ Shot Glass Journal, Yellow Medicine Review, and the Confluence Project’s Voices of the River. Carlee spends her free time feeding raccoons and volunteering for her tribe, the Chinook Indian Nation.