Writing the Elements

I write the elements, I said. Earth. Air. Fire. Water. I imagine myself gone, within them. The river as a woman. The fire as a man. The earth cracked open, so many mouths through which to speak.

And air?

And air is wind. And air is weather. A character—changeable, present.

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Fire

You think that because I make fear I don’t fear, but you’re mistaken. I am afraid of rain showers, spigots, pitchers, sea mists, and snowfalls. Of bricks that won’t burn, of macadam, of blankets. Or pearl ash and compressed air, of gunpowder. Of anything that snuffs or dampens, of pine combs and seeds that burst to life when I am in the mood for killing. I am afraid of being hemmed in and broken, of thinning out to only smoke and only vapor, of tracking high, toward the sky, and disappearing, fading.

Of being made extinct.

Of being forgotten.

Fear impels me. Fear is where I draw my courage from.

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