Trash Fire, 1987

by Amanda Auchter

At recess, we gathered around
the chain-link fence, tossed
over gum wrappers, plastic

charms, apples saved from lunch.
The goats sniffed our fingers,
ran their tongues over our discards.

The wild grass hid our secrets;
we buried love notes
and report cards in the pockets

of loose earth, dug crawdads
from their mounds, let
their translucent husks crack

in the dry air. The farmer piled up
his trash-flat tires, yellowed
newspapers, old blue jeans, lit

the relics from our makeshift grotto.
The wind lifted the flames,
spun it through the sky.

Everything burned that spring-
We watched the garbage float,
lost each other in the white vortex

of smoke and ash. I reached out
to catch the cinders, felt the debris
leave its chalk imprint on my palm.