We are pieces of clay being fired again.
—Terry Tempest Williams

i live on the back of a sleeping bear,
a slope brown with grasses i can’t name
because i was not a child here

i live on the back of a bear
that slept through wildfire,
choking foxtails and biting stars

i live and moments ripple brown
everything’s dirty, every toxic choice

fireweed we are, moving back in
like spooked mice to the cleared attic
after a death

i die on the back of a bear
with every step—a twitching,
indignant beast, breathing in
future grace, exhaling soot
and desert brine, orthodoxy
of some kind

fireweed, we flower—hang
business signs, queue
for traffic control, tell
evacuation stories
in checkout lines, rant
in forums

crack open and lay our pollen in ash

i live on the back of the sleeping bear,
i spark, i twitch

the bear and the people are one hide,
one death, one birth

while sleeping, twitching,
the bear becomes
nutritious wood.