Smoke Screen

It arrived as orange slats of light
cutting across the mud room floor,
illuminating dog fur, ambering
the blinds into what looked like
a warmth that could be touched.
The sun became a watercolor
wash of neon pink, bleeding
into the sky.

Cue the keyboard,
the pointed fingers,
the insults volleying
over the web of I, I, I.
Cue the agenda,
a mother’s armful of embers
as her smoldering children
line the ground with chalk.

I floated on my back,
the pool water muffling
all their hells.
I breathed in a forest
and it dried in my hair.

Instead of sun,
I saw mosaic.
Instead of
the machinery
of clouds,
smoke.