The burning comes earlier
and earlier each year, as we march
our way further down this angry path.
Seems I can recall passes
round the sun where snow
still fell in great heaping drifts
from the sky well into March.
Seems I can recall the time
when we cheered
at the thick smoke rising into the sky.

I know I remember old Lilike
left alone and freezing
in folds of tattered blankets.
Karel was the one to find her.
Her only son returned,
greeted with a cold hearth
and an empty, pallid grin.
We wailed into the night
until her name and Marzanna's
melded into a slurry
of incomprehensible syllables.

Now, our voices warble
for something new entire.
In shorts and sunscreen
at the wrong solstice, we weep
and scream for Marzanna slipping,
slick like oil between our fingers,
into the nothingness of history.
Effigies don't burn so well
in this overflow but we can all
duck our heads deep in the runoff
and bid the terror farewell.

© 2023 Anton Cancre