Bonfire
Riley James Nold
Barren roads, burning sand and sawdust mix to form a railway that conducts me someplace outside city limits. I sit hunchbacked on the stained mountaineer seats,
my body impossibly contorted like a fishhook stuck in some old roadside fencepost. The train conductor keeps his dusty 4H tractor hat neatly crooked off to the side,
letting gray hair breathe in Midwest ambience,
a thimbled finger raps out a Johnny Cash hymnal.
Oasis homestead, don’t peek too far or your eyes will stumble into the background decay of rotting farmhouses. Take a moment to honor the fallen heroes
and cover your nose with a handkerchief
to avoid breathing in the soot of your father’s childhood. Forget the old barn,
Now is time for milkshake laughter and staircase roller coasters! Sticky sugared hands hold us together tight down the impossibly steep hill as we descend into chaotic giggles. I hear you off in the corner, bright-eyed at vegetable truths, we watch movies that night and wonder if the popcorn ceiling above tastes as good as togetherness.
Forage for survival; or more likely plump pumpkins,
set up secret garden interviews for ideal jack-o-lantern candidates.
I record highly classified gibberish notes in the dirt with a prized carrot
before taking a bite, gritty, a mineral sour punch
soothed by the watery aftertaste of a sweet tough interior. Grandma gives me a scolding smile as she snaps peas off the vine, but I’m spirited away
by the sound of a riding mower before I can see it. Inhale the scent of fresh cut grass
and choke on the memory before being lifted onto my giant’s lap.
I’m laying down in the living room, my head between your knees
as another master criminal is unmasked (and he would’ve gotten away with it too…), my 1960’s childhood brought to life daily on the flatscreen. I tell you that I am sick
and you build for me a bird’s nest, swaddle me in a farmer’s tan and rough fingers that know how to wrangle hogs and wipe my tears. You roll me up into a bay of hale
and let me sit for a while as the wind blows through the dirty window.
And when I wake up
Race me down to the woods, pump our brakes and scrape our knees as we get low to ask the wood beetles if they know where the best logs are hidden.
We play Jenga games until our arms are full, and we trek back uphill
to the mouth of the volcano, we sacrifice our treasures and coax forward the flame.
The heat melts evening clarity into a nighttime smore of flavors and conversation.
Our bellies full, we plunge white hot cutlasses into the lakeside
and grin a devil’s grin as they sizzle out. And now we’re left sitting by the roadside, wondering why the moon looks so much brighter out here in the country.
Each time I remember this place it becomes fonder in my heart and foggier in the mind.
I wish it was a ghost town.
But instead, it’s just empty. The ghosts left a long time ago.