The Fire

by Chris Callard

It all went up in the fire.

The photos, the chairs, the clothes, the loves,

the work, the flirting with greatness.

Tinged memories, ash-fringed heart.

Embers mocking jabberwocky smoke.

Breathing haze for days.

Fly me to the moon, all the earthly glamor hammered,

smudged mud after the hoses were through.

Crackling sound resonates,

a roundabout due for incineration.

It came, it’s gone, all of it, consumed.

Blow the residue from your nose,

sneeze cleansingly.

And so it goes.

Sharing

My dad shared wistfully that he learned French kissing

as a teen from his older sister.

A 1940s vibe.

After an up and down life, stressful, too eventful,

She had her heart attack.

He stopped by for his check-in and found her on the floor.

911 said give mouth to mouth.

He knew she was gone but could not ignore the professional advice.

Useless, of course, unfortunate, as well.

When he told the story later there was no wistful sentimentality.

Just a sense of oddity.

Strange sibling bookends, sad, sweet, earthy, innocent at 70.

A family tale, remembered by few, now shared again.

Snoring

Your skin is so moving, its kindness so full.

You wondered, said hello,

said you liked this snugly.

You knew, though, how

far past due I was.

Still, a lovely gesture to make.

Why do I say goodbye so boorishly

when I adored your snoring?

BIO

Chris Callard lives in Long Beach, CA. His poems have appeared in Ariel Chart, Witcraft, Cadence Collective, and One Sentence Poems. His short fiction has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Review, Witcraft, Ariel Chart, Gemini Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, A Story in 100 Words, and ZZyZxWriterZ. His work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Small Fictions.