“Bargaining with the Palisades Fire, I Buy a Pack of Edible Flowers,” by Anna Journey

If I eat every petal of chive blossom
and hibiscus, marigold and rose, if I swallow
each dahlia and begonia whole, will you
spare the Musch Trail in Topanga? I don’t
know what to do if it burns. If I make
like a wildfire and erase this palmful of lavender,
will you leave my favorite meadow tasselled
in white sage and black mustard? May I please
keep that shaded creekside nook I named
Quail Holler? Listen, the twisted manzanitas
that gnarl through the state park with their
waxed auburn bark already recall flesh
burned to the third degree. Right now,
Chuck and Gail’s house still stands
with its Spanish tile, twin writers’ sheds,
and framed Sylvia Plath drawing, the flames
stopped by the choppers’ water bombs
half a block from their gate. I’ve stopped
photographing the striped sunsets’ mineral bleed
because I don’t even want to think the word
beautiful when those black-and-fuchsia bands
deepen their geodes only due to the smoke
and debris. An ex-boyfriend once brought me
a quartz-filled rock from a gem store in Richmond
where he’d bought digital scales for the weed
Mindy drove down each month from Albany.
The safety instructions said to break
open the geodes using a clawhammer
and tube sock. This way you’d contain
the blast, the explosion’s shards
wouldn’t fly, and you’d still
keep both eyes to bear witness.