Aliah Lavonne Tigh
The refinery's burning
itself now. A long dark
arm in the sky throws
a hazy net
over Houston. This city
where we met: swamp
land. We've learned to muck out
flooded rooms. We tear through floors—our crowbars
covered in clayish sand.
Still Spanish moss hangs
in Yaupon holly
trees. Red berries grow for the migrating
waxwings.
Stand with me
between live oak hips. Eastern swallowtails fly in the ash
particulate, beat their black wings
against wild salvia lips. We're going to
see some natural beauty. Bayou
all around us. We're going to
unbury ourselves.