This isn’t a protest, you understand.
Bonfire in May with wood that’s gone dry,
we’re burning the things that cannot withstand.
My brother and grandma both see to this land
as soldier turned farmer and farmer gone by.
This isn’t a protest, you understand.
Grandma is gleeful. In her outstretched hand
an old pair of blue jeans, ripped to the thigh.
We’re burning the things that cannot withstand.
The jeans sigh out smoke as the fabric expands.
My brother’s unfazed. He’s seen larger things die.
This isn’t a protest, you understand.
It’s just spring cleaning. As burning is planned
on prairies and places grown up too high,
it’s burning the things that cannot withstand.
Grandma’s not done. A flag hanging in strands
burns red and blue as she catches my eye.
This isn’t a protest, you understand.
I’m burning the things that cannot withstand.
