It was the second fire
Years after the garage
Had burnt down
I came home from
Night church
The light switches
Wouldn’t work
I didn’t smell smoke
Right away but heard
My kitten Christopher
Mewling downstairs
The hallway door
Leading there was closed
And in the basement
The shell of my brother’s
Bedroom had become
Charred crimson cinders
Each slat of wood
Resembling red rebar
Or long stove coils
In the smoky haze
I scooped up Chris
Went to a neighbor
Dialed the fire department
They brought an investigator
Who grilled me
Out on the damp lawn
Until it grew so dark
I could no longer see
His expression and
Determine if he was
Actually serious
He pointed questions
Was I resentful my
Parents had left me
While they lived
Somewhere in Idaho
Did I want retribution
Were there issues
I had with them
That would lead me
To set my house on fire
I said
No
No
And
Of course not
I never said how
In those years
Each day was spent
Hustling the demons
That buzzed around
My shallow skull
Like a hive of
Angry wasps
Sometimes drilling
Their stingers
Straight through
My hippocampus
I never said I
Was actually thrilled
My parents were living
Someplace other than here
Where the history
Of their handprints
Still haunted everything
Darker than
The thickest smoke
Glowing brighter
Than any oven coil
Burning everything
To ash
Again and again
And again
Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State, an editor at the online magazine Literary Orphans, and the author of I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE HERE AND NEITHER ARE YOU, a story collection out from Unknown Press. You can also find him at lenkuntz.blogspot.com.
Foxglove Journal 