Did you know I set myself on fire
just for the smoke.
Did you know the world set itself afloat
and everything melted
back to Pangaea
with no boats.
Did you know we arrived at an island
where my lungs floated above the trees, becoming clouds
that I held onto like balloons
along with those of every other child
in this city. The myths carried in this land
blaze through the hills.
Over the smokestacks,
we don’t speak but run our fingers
down the landscape. My lungs
two powdered rooms,
but I am not thinking
about lungs, only fire.
A landscape of ash. I fell asleep
in the car, this morning
on the highway, and I dreamed
the fog was a shifting ocean
covering the valley. No fish
between the mountains, which became islands,
which I climbed; out of the earth came smoke,
the flames coal-black. And the whole time
I was the earth, I was the fire,
the car and highway and every path
that leads to the ocean:
drained of fish,
drained of life. The land already sunk
into my eyes: closed in a garden
Taylor Fang is high school student living in Logan, Utah. Her poetry has been published in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Blue Marble Review, and elsewhere, and has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and The Poetry Society UK. b. 2003