Sara Burge ​
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Scorched Earth

My mother scorched earth,
traumatized earth,
put earth in its place.
 
After the preacher visited our house
to command her to come back to church
or her children will burn,
we never saw church again.
 
That one friend in 5th grade
looked at her funny.
No more of that friend.
 
She could pollinate dread
until we dreaded
what the day might bloom.
 
She taught us to gauge
how hot the day’s
tempers would be
by listening close
before we got out of bed.
 
My mother burned
all my father’s things
after that truck stop waitress.
And my things.
And my brother’s.
 
I hid in the closet
because my mother said
there were bullets.
Watch out.
 
My mother was bullets
so I had to watch out.
 
My mother never talked
to someone again
if she didn’t like what they said.
 
My mother didn’t talk to me
for a week after
my sister gave me wine
the night before
my twelfth birthday.
 
My mother took away
my twelfth birthday.
 
My mother says
needles live in her back
which is now
scorched earth.
 
My mother says
pain is where she lives
and won’t I come
see her.
 
My mother’s heart
burns within her chest.
 
My mother hurts,
all the time.
 
My mother misses me.
 
My mother is burning.

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Sara Burge is the author of Apocalypse Ranch (C&R Press 2010), and her poetry has appeared in Willow Springs, Phoebe, Prairie Schooner, CALYX Journal, Virginia Quarterly Review, and elsewhere. She is the Poetry Editor of Moon City Review.