You billowed and smoldered.
You couldn’t see the mountain from where you were sitting.
The mist was too thick.
You couldn’t see the mountain but just the other year you were the mountain,
the wind from the valley rising up to kiss your neck,
city beneath you like rows of children’s toys
strewn on a rug.
You imagined you could feel heaven because you were above the clouds –
you were the clouds.
But with lungs nearer to the earth,
you remembered that heaven isn’t owed to you.
Heaven isn’t owed to anyone.
And you waited until the mist covered your eyes
to set yourself on fire.
Ira Thorpe Huff is Seneca and a writer of short fiction and poetry. He received his BA in English & Textual Studies from Syracuse University and is currently pursuing his MFA in Creative Writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts. He resides in Santa Fe, New Mexico.