By Peter Mladinic
Around a campfire with the dead.
Were they still among the living
we could drive to the desert.
As the sun set we could gather mesquite
branches, stack them in a fire pit,
light a match and watch the fire start
and get bigger and brighter
in the dark. We could sit across the fire
and talk about people we knew.
Someone would tell a story.
Now they are stories.
Now in the desert at night there is silence
and darkness.
Except if you or I were there
we’d hear coyotes yelp and howl
as my friends and I heard them.