Because the Avon Street Fire, October 8, 1990

A bag
of pepitas
to sprinkle across fields,
a rustling in the copse alerts
you and

who else
to diagnose
these days as scars, nights more.
You ascend the hill alone, save
a bird.

Halos
getting lost in
translation shift too quickly to
measure.

There was
that fire 30
years ago and that fly
on the VP’s head that won the
the debate.

You keep
saying we all
have a fire story to
tell, this one’s yours. Who really owns
the flame?

Who knows
why she swallowed
the firefly, or who she
is. Only that now they have gone
missing.

Not the
torch’s fault, nor
the cardinal’s, nor its
nest. The man on the roof didn’t
bother

to check
for smoke before
climbing down. You didn’t
believe it could happen to you.
Lucky

to lose
nothing because
you had nothing to lose.
It took decades to learn how to
exhale.

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