She brushes her little boy’s hair
From his eyes, as she watches
The fire truck pulling away—
Its whistle tooting down
The street.
Mama buries her head
In the bundle she holds
In her arms. He is now
Falling asleep; little snores
Help her heart keep pace.
She knows the fire wasn’t
A mistake, just a means to
Escape. She didn’t
Want her baby
To grow older
And notice the red fingers
That didn’t disappear from her skin.
Outside, in this night
Where the snow puddles
And the brown grass with
Green roots peek through—
She waits for the Chief
of the town police
To come speak.
The house is just a frame
Waiting to mold over with
Moss, like the graves around
The block, broken and un-kept.
She can see where the only bedroom
Used to be; all that’s standing
Is the charred crib pieces left of the man
Who blackened her past. And outside the
Door, was a ripped fluffy arm,
Damp from the hoses’ blast.
