Evacuation Warning
We charge the walkie-talkie in case we find its mate.
On occasion, it acquires voice—crackling words
striated as our dirt-streaked hatchback after which
a ghost floats. That's how I picture death: pearly
ancestral shadow hovering in case I call. To them
I am the departed. I say not their names until
fire clinches the city and gale halts teenage inmates
flying chemicals into flame—
What even is this
globe we molded from coal and apathy, our rock
of ribbon, iron bars, and trash? Still emerald
some days. When what remains is blackened pillar,
paths to ash, our farewell photos assume their power
to resurrect. Good thing ghosts do not lecture.
We tell ourselves the dead never tire of ruin.
