What was I thinking
that I'd live
to tell
and that all the
grime
and the soot
would be washed
from my skin?
I still smell like the storm of 58, the one that buried us alive, beast and men
huddled in a cage, wearing all our clothes day and night, our legs mottled with burn marks for
all that standing by the fire, the fire that had to be kept bright and hot else melting snow would douse it forever. We broke up chairs and baskets and bed posts to stay warm,
killed all the small animals in our care
our stock of olives and nuts barely nourishing us
until the day came, was it days or months later,
when we shoveled ourselves out
smelling forever of
olive pits
soiled papers
and all the shit
we ate and burned to keep ourselves alive.
