The Fire

Do you remember

when we watched

the farmhouse

burn?

its old tan paint

sluicing in

dark crumbles

to browning

grass,

peeling up

and away

like skin from

bone and muscle,

torn

from the boards

beneath

and melting

in a gray-scale

Crayola

mess.

Black seas

bloomed

under the rough

caress

of flame fingers,

charred bruises

marring

the soft flesh

of our

apple butter,

Christmas dinner,

sleeping-bags

in-Great-Grandma's-

foyer,

home.

You held my

hand with your

trembling own,

shook

like the ribbons

of plastic

squirming

in melting-point

agony

at the edges

of the kitchen

windows,

and through your

toddler tears

never saw

grandma

standing solid

at our backs,

liquid eyes

rippling

with reflected

flame,

as she watched

the smoking wooden

bones

of her mother

crumble

to hot

ash