wildscape. literary journal

& FIRE & ICE
by Kayley Vandenberg

Pedro greets me on Thursday.
He says it’s frio and I reply sí. 
We can’t say much else. I point to the fruit—
Este, por favor.

He says it’s frio and I reply sí
then stumble through con tajín y limón.
after Este, por favor. 
He asks fork? in Spanish as he scoops his hand to his mouth.

I stumble through con tajín y limón,
words that still live in my body.
He asks fork? in Spanish as he scoops his hand
so I will know what he means.

There are words that still live in my body,
names like the Santa Anas, Eaton.
Now I know what it means
when someone says after the fires.

Names like the Santa Anas, Eaton
make me worry less about earthquakes.
When someone says after the fires,
the words come out tangled in roots.

I worry less about earthquakes
now that people are disappearing.
The words come out tangled in roots
when we cry for our neighbors.

Now that people are disappearing
I chant in crowds clad with clever signs.
But when we cry for our neighbors
something keeps getting lost in translation.

I chant in crowds with clever signs
as if we believe in a heaven that can help
but what we mean gets lost in translation.
How do you say fuck ICE in every language?

I no longer believe in a heaven that can help
and my weather app warns about a wind advisory.
How do you say fuck fire in every language?
How do we shout enough without saying a word?

My weather app warns about a wind advisory.
January stagnates as ash swirls in empty lots.
Here I am, begging enough. 
Still, the current comes.

Ash swirls in lots my friends called home.
How quickly everything changes.
Still, the current comes.
Still comes fire. Still comes ICE.

How quickly everything changes.
How slowly nothing does.
Still comes fire. Still comes ICE.
And we are going nowhere.

How slowly nothing changes.
Pedro repeats tenedor?
Time careens like the car of a dead driver
and we are going nowhere.

about the author // Kayley Vandenberg