Landscape with footprints in Ash

Landscape with footprints in ash

Selma Asotić

You must leave for the story to begin is what fairytales taught me. I left. My ghosts now trail behind and weep. I try to comfort them. At night I place a bowl of milk on the terrace. I promise a trip to the sea. They disappear. When I’m alone in the room all catastrophes are easily traceable. I bury my mind. Useless mill churning voices, plastic straws, bills, hands demanding to give and give and give. My own hands I fling down the river. At the estuary they remember everything. In my head is a circle farm. If I die, this very moment, no one will finish what I set out to say. What will you do then, my misery? Already August. In heat, things expand. So do minutes. Fire swallows trees, entire forests. At some point, there won’t be anything left to burn. Fire has no future. What a relief for the fire.

Say Fire by Selma Asotić