Campfires by Bridget Clawson

And now I am an old woman, alone and camping along the Pacific.
For me,  there are  no campfire songs  or tall  tales as  with familial
groups  I  notice, happy  together like  a  carpet  of  biscuits  on the
bottom  of  a  cast  iron skillet.   A  slender  gray  snake slid into my
sleeping bag  once and gifted  to me several exclusive clues about
being  alone and  how to walk  with it.  In  the chill of darkness, I let
stars fall around my shoulders like a shawl. I don’t get rattled when
twigs crack behind me on a moonless path.   While camping under
Douglas  Firs, I  watch as  boughs break.  I close  my eyes  to be the
falling-down  baby in the  cradle  and wake  up to find  he’s got the
whole world in his hands and I haven’t fallen out, just because I am
alone.


bridget clawsonBridget Clawson writes in Edmonds, Washington where she lives with her two dogs. She tows a teardrop camper to places near water in Washington and Oregon where she rockhounds for jaspers and agates to polish. Ms. Clawson has published two books on grief and loss and is currently working on a fictionalized account of her great-grandmother, who worked as a prostitute in the 1800’s. Her prose poems are found in various journals recently, including Mojave River Review, Ginosko Literary Journal, and Picaroon Press.


Back to Issue #24

 

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