[POETRY]

[12/19/25]

I See a City On Fire

Five Poems by Guy Cramer

The weeks of buzzing inside nearly drove everyone mad

When the fly finally landed
in my honeyed tea cup
I covered the rim. I walked
out the door realizing this
was probably the first time it
had been outside. I went further
toward the road, found someone’s
cat where a swarm had
already congregated. It didn’t
want to leave, my finger
nearly crushed it during
the eviction process,
flicking its engineering
marvel of a body onto
the ground. The others rose
like a black pepper cloud
welcoming it home. Exchanging
fraternal handshakes of mucus,
as if to say there was more
where this came from. A new 
world of war and disease awaited,
but they wouldn’t have to fly
far, there’s shed by the tracks
where all day a man leans against
a cypress tree stump whose breath
is strong and fruity, his clothes
stained and salty, eyes always
closed, doesn’t even flinch.

Infestation

we have cockroaches 
not water bugs
that’s what people call them 
when they don’t want to say
we have roaches
because nobody will want to come over
some of them fly
some crawl up my leg while i watch TV
all the awfulness happening now
and you know what i mean 
it wasn’t until one crawled on my pizza
that i got up and said that’s it
grabbed my coat and keys
leaving the TV on 
so burglars think i’m home
which someone told me 
was dishonest
ha! 
i see a city on fire
and the news saying 
we have to go to war 
to maintain peace
which is like saying we need to fuck
to practice celibacy
they say after the nukes
all that will be alive 
are these damn roaches 
and while my thoughts 
are on poison pastes 
roach motels 
and roach bait
i wonder if it’s more of a punishment
to not do anything 
at all.

Like Erm

One day
It was a pile of dead Red Coats,
the next day, Nazis,
the day after that,
a mound of North Korean soldiers,

this was how we played army
until covering every war
we recalled throughout history.

Erm said when he turned 18
he’d trade in his Walmart camos
for a set of real ones,
and when the twin towers fell
his wet dream of enlistment came true.

But his moon and stars couldn’t agree on the same thing,
his eyesight kept him behind a desk
in Virginia most of the time.

He told stories about the office
as if he’d been thrown into combat
“Our DOS system crashed. 
I looked around the room and said
‘I need a few good programmers, who’s with me?’”

Or the time the fire alarm got pulled
when the breakroom microwave caught fire,
he kicked in bathroom stalls,
throwing grown men in mid-shit over his shoulder.

He went to New York on leave,
told a girl standing on the street
that hailing a cab was no different
than waving down a Black Hawk and stepped off the curb.
Only the girl saw the car racing to beat the light.

The version I tell is much different,
after the lunch rush,
or when a new cook or busboy ask
if I served like Erm.

They’re eager to hear about blood and guts
and if I ever killed anyone.
I tell them hold on,
I’m getting to the good part.

Perdónanos

A man and a woman approached the relief tent
where we bandaged wounds, lifted up prayers,
and handed out cardboard trays with sandwiches,
canned peaches, and bottles of spring water.

They were both wearing the colors of the Guatemalan flag,
holding a picture of a child who never learned what to do
before the flash, their faces could’ve been made
from the same composites as its cardstock:
grainy, creased, weathered, absent of a smile.

We’d had hundreds of people coming in and out all week
unable to go back to their homes,
too many fallen power lines and bodies blocking rafts
as more flooding had come in from the coast.

I gathered a small group of volunteers,
pooling together our flashlights, orange life vests, and rope.
When the cold black water began filling our boots,
the couple looked at us with a glimmer of hope,

not knowing we’d only had a three-day crash course
of high school-level Spanish and first aid training.
Our pictures were in the Prensa Libre the week we arrived
armed with bibles, Band-Aids, and pre-packaged food,
thinking that was all one needed to be saved.

Ancestry

my grandmother knew the day she was going to die
it’s a Cherokee thing she said
like so many white families
we thought ours had Native American blood
a rumor passed down several generations
to me
who dispelled it
by getting DNA testing
pissing off half the family
when i told them
nope we’re 100% anglo
i never mentioned this to her
kept listening to her stories
the last time i saw her at the nursing home
she said her spirit would take the form of a horse
i brushed back her silver hair
as light from the window set it ablaze.

GUY CRAMER is a healthcare worker from the Ark-La-Tex region whose poems and stories have recently been featured in Horror Sleaze Trash, Farewell Transmission, ExPat Press, Pool Party Mag, and Hobart (forthcoming). He is on IG @guy.cramer