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Burned House |
© Beth Roberts | The bad neighbors in the insulation-colored house who shot the sky, drank brunch and burned whatever was at hand have burned the hand that held them. Dog sniffs new snow at the perimeter while I admire the debris under the moon. Under the weather the structure looks askant, less blatantly black & blue at night. Off the porch, a chair holds ash that held the arsonist with a new vision of home. I put my nose to the house for the view: on the coldest day in eighty years, a slim shoot appeared in a dull light. Disenchanted with all his bright ideas, he got the family out. Details condensed to a blue tip on a minute finger, enlightened. Then it was only a matter of time and matter. Domestic fire licked everything shaped. I lay the varied planes of my face against the wood to feel it still. A faint smell, as in singed paper, as in far controlled burns at the end of the day. |