Kristian O’Hare

And it’s only June

Dusk, in Clarkdale, Arizona, an old
copper mining town now hip with
art galleries and wineries. At our
Airbnb, we lie naked, on top of the
made bed, trying to stay cool beneath
the asthmatic air conditioner. On TV,
newscasters enthusiastically go on
about the unprecedented heat while
a map dotted with illustrated flames
licks up much of the state. Outside,
hot winds gallop across high ridges
thick with chaparral and granitic rocks,
a brow furrowed with thickets of Catclaw
and Tanglehead. Buffelgrass smothers
a hillside of young saguaros. A finger
of flame. Senna, hot-shriveled, ripe
with seeds, rattles a warning in their
woody pods. As night falls, a flank
of fire now near Fossil Creek, creeps
the edge of Deadman Mesa. Slipper
plants drip red soda straw stalactites.
In the morning, we continue on to
Albuquerque. In the distance, the salt-
burned horizon is sloped with Brittlebush
and brick-red soil. On the radio, a report
on the record heat and high winds, more
active wildfires, some small, others growing
rapidly, 23 fires burn across Arizona, and
it’s only June. In the rearview, a yellow
haze drags like a dusted cretonne over
the Santa Teresa Mountains.

Kristian O’Hare‘s writing has appeared in Third Coast Magazine, Fourteen Hills, South 85 Journal, New Orleans Review, The Indianapolis Review, Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine, Hobart, Fauxmoir Lit Mag, Reservoir Road Literary Journal, Peatsmoke Journal, and Raleigh Review.  He lives in San Francisco and teaches First-Year Writing and Introduction to Creative Writing at San Jose State University. Fave sweet: Since it’s summer I have to say blueberry pie.