“Torch” by Catherine Broadwall

Credit: Felice Wölke

Outside my window is a gold, gold tree.

Its leaves are not ombré. They are solid

gold. Like a kid might color in      a sun with yellow crayon.

The tree glows like       a holy pyre,                 a fluttering liturgical

candle.

Set against the opal sky,           wavering. Burning.

A flame I could warm        my hands on.

*

Last autumn, my family packed up      their pets

and fled from the fire      that licked down the trees.

My mother did not      have time to grab her cell phone.         They

packed up their pets

and left.           This was after              my brother

went downstairs to get a drink                         and the hillside of

blackberries

was knocking at the window                in flames.

Almost close enough to touch.

They drove through the night. One cat. Two dogs. Four people.

Driving for their lives.

*

The tree out my window is not a ginkgo tree,              but I like to

pretend that it is.

Ginkgo trees, too, produce such light.             Their mermaid-tail

leaves brighter than honey.

Before he died, my grandfather            loved ginkgo trees.       He

said they dated back

to the dinosaurs and he                  admired that resolve.

Survival                for so, so long.

I wish I could interview the Ginkgo biloba,                    ask it

what it has seen.

Meteors and Ice Age.               Empires and ruin.                    A

tidal         waltz          of life.

If I could, I would ask it, What do we do?

You’ve seen it all. What do we do?

*

The news says some firefighters rescued          a mountain lion

cub

who was wandering                 alone amid the char.        He was

orphaned,        see.

They named him Captain Cal.               Nurses treated his burns.

In videos online, you can look

into the Captain’s eyes.

Imagine what he has seen.

*

My family takes            a video of what the fire did                  to

their next door neighbor’s siding.

A scorch mark slashes its way across the house.          A hot knife

dragging    its ire.

It tastes like smoke, they tell me              once they are back home.

Inside the house. The air,

it tastes like smoke.

*

I have never wanted to believe more               in charms,       in

prayers,       in blessings.

My mother’s friend says           the small row of stones             that

is blessed

helped protect them from the fire.       I do not know how

or why the stones are blessed. Or who blessed them.

But I want it to be true.

*

My grandfather had                 this tree in his back yard.         A

ginkgo.         By a hillside

full of nightshade.        Whenever we’d play blackjack, he’d

gesture to its gold leaves, say,

Think of that, Cat.      Think of all it has survived.               It must

know something rare. Something special.

I’d nod and crunch a pretzel. Study my hand.              The cards

adding up

to seventeen.                At twenty-one or higher, you lose.

Hit me, I’d say.

Pushing my luck. Hoping to beat the odds.

In “Torch,” poet Catherine Broadwall explores the fire-related loss that increasingly ravages North America. Broadwall’s characters are able to escape the flames with their family members and pets, but barely – fire tapping at the windows; a cell phone left behind. As the poem continues, Broadwall hints at further consequences: an orphaned mountain lion cub, houses branded with scorch marks, air that tastes like smoke.

Poet Catherine Broadwall
Credit: catherinebroadwall.com

While these grievances may seem minor compared to the thousands who’ve lost homes or loved ones, Broadwall presents them as heart-wrenching evidence of the widespread devastation resulting from climate change. She turns to her elders – her grandfather, before he died, and his reverence for Ginkgo trees; their ability to survive dramatic changes – and asks: What do we do?

As the U.S. and Canada move into a warm, dry spring, and a potentially exceptional fire season, there is no easy answer to Broadwall’s question. Only the desperate grasp for optimism in the poem’s final lines: “Pushing my luck. Hoping to beat the odds.”

“Torch” appeared in Broadwall’s 2023 collection “Fulgurite,” named for the glassy crust formed when lightning strikes sand or rock. You can view more of her work on her website, catherinebroadwall.com.