perhappened mag
issue 3: HEATWAVE
a two-story house with
yellow siding is on fire
HANNAH CAJANDIG-TAYLOR
When my carapace ashes away, I fail to write
about spaghetti trees. Instead, fixate on how
burning something is only considered arson
if the act is deliberate. Try not to think
about rigor mortis. My obsession with words
like combustion & chandeliers uncharred
into foyer carpet. In this dream, the world
can breathe. Smoke doesn’t paint itself
with the sadness of others. Candles dance
in an iron circle, suspended over unbroken
floorboards, my body moving towards shadow
walls. No. This doesn’t hurt. I’ve never been burned
without pouring the gasoline. Without climbing
the stairs before dream-sailing from an attic window
blown out by dream-flames, silhouette dissipating
into butane sky, chest ablaze in the shape of home.
about spaghetti trees. Instead, fixate on how
burning something is only considered arson
if the act is deliberate. Try not to think
about rigor mortis. My obsession with words
like combustion & chandeliers uncharred
into foyer carpet. In this dream, the world
can breathe. Smoke doesn’t paint itself
with the sadness of others. Candles dance
in an iron circle, suspended over unbroken
floorboards, my body moving towards shadow
walls. No. This doesn’t hurt. I’ve never been burned
without pouring the gasoline. Without climbing
the stairs before dream-sailing from an attic window
blown out by dream-flames, silhouette dissipating
into butane sky, chest ablaze in the shape of home.
Hannah Cajandig-Taylor is a poet/flash writer residing in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where she reads for Passages North and Fractured Lit. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart Pulp, Milk Candy Review, Xray Lit, and Kissing Dynamite, among others. She's been nominated for a Best Small Fictions Award and still plays Nancy Drew games on her computer.