Sister Arsonist

Sister Arsonist

a parable

I didn’t even notice when you left.  
You must’ve rolled your bags across the yard
without crushing a single leaf.

But I remembered you had brandished 
a bright red palm-shape, 
a warning some other autumn

when you could still laugh
at my withering.
Last blast, you shrieked.

Stop sign!  We had to make our fun
any way we could.  Now it’s paper 
dolls snipped from newsprint.

You were the girly girl,
I was failure to thrive.
It’s okay to start from behind,

but only if you catch up.
Now you’ve abandoned
your old boots next to the box

where you kept your hearth matches.  
They don’t fit me, but they looked wrong
drawing your body down

to a blunt point like a broken pencil.
You’re too fast for that look.
You’re practically invisible

when you smoke across a parking lot
or our orchard where you’re no longer
welcome. I’m a late borrower,

what have you got I can wear?
Is this tinder box good for an evening out?
Strike these or throw them away?

Wronged, wronged, wronged—
that’s you.  You’re missing
from your shadow, and the grass

clippings stick to my hands
like cinders when I reach for it.
Once the fire’s out, and the story’s

gathered within the folds
of its own too-familiar plot
like a cracked egg in a tea towel,

we say whatever we want
to those who don’t know anyway,
and what you want is a settlement.

It’s a matter of time standing still
before I hear about your hands
wavering like flame

into dry timber. The doubt
will remain even if you manage
to burn it down in search of

a friend to listen. She’ll tell me
too, you can count on it.  
Exactly where you poured the gasoline.