There was fire reflected in his eyes,
and though he had been so kind lately,
been treating me tenderly,
it all shattered
in the calm evening
after dinner was served and the dishes were done.
There was no wind but things carried.
He screamed at me
from the doorway, from deep in his diaphragm,
‘Get Out Now!’
And I thought he was angry at me
for a flashing moment-I felt
enraged-by the tone.
I noticed, however,
his face was glowing-not from
the evening sunset.
My eyes went south-
east, thirty feet tall,
a basket of burning serpents
squirmed atop a roof and were licking the sky,
devouring a tree,
the roof next door is on fire!
A black plume expands like dye in water,
like a volcano that erupts before projecting
sound.
In the long hot silence,
before the sirens in the distance,
my heart
strains to find a steady rhythm amidst
the pops, cracks and snaps.
The cats are hiding, children are
lining the street filming,
hoses are flowing anemic,
I am frozen in place.
I think of how we just survived the flood.
When the fire finally died,
we waited for the third
and last
good Friday before we may rise and shine
only to be born again
on Sunday.
Painting by George Hitchcock c. 1904, 'Easter Sunday' in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
