POETRY January 1, 2026

After Inferno Sestina

following the Eaton Fire

the smell in the air was the sticky agave grit of the mountain

sinister clean desert pumice sweet foliage of dead home

furled rolling paper: gold engraved lighter: our long fingered devil

the sudden click-spark orange creeping stealth of burn

lit end like an open eye an open maw color of day’s finale

smoke and lungs and a terrible red belonging

only rock and sediment know anything real about belonging

what kind of departures are witnessed by the mountain

every beginning a black anticipation of finale

goodbye farewell toodaloo au revoir to the home

made of stone made of steel made of wood will it burn

spall melt combust in the hard oven heart of the devil

don’t think your heart is any different from the devil’s

clinging to the coal pile myth of belonging

shoveling higher and higher but never letting it burn

letting it lava rumble shift remake itself into mountain

is this: this is: no home: oh home: go home

bright blaze smoke’s shadow ashen ring the finale

after cacophony after firework is another quieter finale

called aftermath called smoke clearing called lucky devil

would you look at that can you believe it our home

stiff-backed and gagging on all those belongings

craving hollowness spitting spitting so unlike the mountain

not ungrateful no but if it had just— if it had just burned

say it again: it would have been easier if it had just burned

foolish foolhardy fooling yourself as if there’s only one finale

putting your white suit on to walk up and up the mountain

just to remove your mask and speak clearly to the devil

to tell him how you really feel about your belongings

reeking and unfamiliar laid like a landmine in your home

what makes a home makes you feel at home in your home

little nest of hair and baubles little nest of things to burn

poof gone in the eyes gone in the mind what it is to be longing

for what is right in front of you the unrecognizable finale

drawn out in ongoing endless perpetual deals with the devil

cataloguing your coats your shoes stripped bare as the mountain—

all mixed up equating belongings with home

equating home with mountain equating burn

with finale equating finale with the devil’s work

Ariel Machell received her MFA from the University of Oregon, where she fell in love with rivers. She is the author of the chapbook In the Wake. Her poems can be found in Brink, The McNeese Review, Pinch, SWWIM, The Shore, Laurel Review, and elsewhere. She lives in Los Angeles and dreams often of water.
Social Media: http://arielmachell.com/