Poem and Visual by L. Ann Wheeler



The acupuncturist moves around her mid-century modern ranch, gently knocking on doors, did you have a good rest? Patient after patient while calming sounds play to each. A bowl of salt under the table. A cup of water under the cabinet of needles.

One day, the motel across the street burns completely to the ground. From the faux-Eames chair in the waiting room, I watch fire engines douse the flames in water, foam. While I lay on the table, flames. When I leave her practice, still flames; now ash and smoke obscure deep winter sun.

Forty types of fire, and we’ve only just started to list. We drive west all day for four days, drive to the new home. Mocking birds flit in the freesia tree, helicopters ask have you seen? I’ve determined what I like about palm trees is the white sheen they get on their fronds in bright daylight—so glossy, almost wet.  



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