Taryn

by Jo Blair Cipriano

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I told the mountain out front I missed you and the sun
slid down its face no different than yesterday. Wasps
took over the hummingbird feeder and I fell
sick with dread, imagining a tiny dead bird body.
Having to know what to do with it. 
I screamed at the wasps to fuck off 
and then cried. I look at the mountain 
and cry. I am alone here, like you were. A fire
two towns over turns sky into dusk, warps the passage
of time. Every few hours: a helicopter
with a bucket. The whirring blades of rescue.
From the future, an apology. A smoking sky 
that says      too late. 

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Jo Blair Cipriano is from Hyattsville, Maryland. They are the 2023 winner of an Academy of American Poets Prize, and have received support from Tin House, the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, and Brooklyn Poets. A former college dropout, Jo is now an MFA candidate at the University of Arizona, where they are a 2023 Southwest Field Studies in Writing fellow.