The Campfire by Karla Renée Nemanic

                        Travis CC



The Campfire

we pass the tequila clockwise
around the campfire
i take a sip 
and stare into the fire 
until i am no longer aware
of a world outside it
and its embers
twirling into the sky

the fireflies glimmer
like fairies
they keep their distance
their glow fading in and out
against the black silhouette
of trees in night

time passes
now each sip punctuates
a confession
or lack of confession
or the decline of a dare

now we are out of tequila
and we turn to clothes
with each dare
i am too scared to complete
a piece must go
my sheer top
my black socks
my shoes

a firefly lands
on my knee
without thinking
i crush it
brushing it to the ground
it continues to flash
its greenish glow fading
in and out 
then out

sitting slouched in my bra
my dark jeans
i say aloud i am lonely
i am lonely
maybe i was born to be lonely
we pass the words clockwise

leaning back on our hands
we watch the stars
through the sparse trees
someone lights a cigarette
in the campfire’s dying flames
and someone else
sketches the moment in pen

​

Karla Renée Nemanic is a queer Latinx poet from the Peach State who tragically longs for sub-80 temperatures. Currently, they are pursuing a BA in English at the University of Georgia. Karla’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Fem Lit Mag, Marias at Sampaguitas, and ang(st) zine. You can find them on Twitter @jajceglava.

---