Burnt Ghosts

by Brad Rose

Burnt ghosts, carbon black,

what good are our tattoos,

no one can see them?

Frictionless, flame-smooth,

one degree above freezing,

we weigh less than ourselves,

unseen as salt on snow.

At the door, you can’t quite tell

if we are coming or going.

We pause for a posthumous cigarette

and watch the smoke rise in reverse,

our brilliant enthusiasms, difficult to discern,

our designs, undetectable.

Tonight, we drive out to Queens.

The houses, like deserts

folded in on themselves,

waiting for something colorful to happen.

This is where the world is.

Every 45 seconds in America,

a house catches fire.

Weather permitting.

*Originally published in San Pedro River Review (Fall 2011).

BIO: Brad Rose was born and raised in Los Angeles, and lives in Boston. He is the author of eight collections of poetry and flash fiction: Or Words to that Effect, I Wouldn’t Say That, Exactly, WordInEdgeWise, Lucky Animals, No. Wait. I Can Explain, Pink X-Ray, de/tonations, and Momentary Turbulence. Brad’s poetry and fiction have appeared in: 45th Parallel, Baltimore Review, New York Quarterly, Lunch Ticket, Puerto del Sol, Clockhouse, Folio, Best Microfiction (2019), Action Spectacle, The Los Angeles Times, Hunger Mountain, Blood and Honey, Right Hand Pointing, and other journals and anthologies. His website is www.bradrosepoetry.com Selected audio readings: https://soundcloud.com/bradrose1