In the living
room, through the floor
I still know
still hope there's a fire with
warmth traveling up the
gilded staircase to bring sweat to my
coddled skin and

mold it into
heavy, too-heavy,
blankets,
the blankets on the back of the couch,

the fibers twisted
into loops, squares,
by grandma, great-grandma,
great-great grandma's
gnarled fingers.

The air brings the
scent of embers
I count the dots
breathe
count the dots
breathe

hoping the fire
alarm will scream out
because the fire I put
out ' but left
one hot
coal ' has flung itself into
flame again
and will not
be put out.

And I
see, when I abandon the
dots, close my eyes,
that it is eating
the banisters '
the oak
mahogany
cherry
mama
picked out, her
second husband
cut and framed so we could
pretend to
be happy,
have the
picturesque foyer
papa never gave
to mama, she didn't
deserve it.

The flames reach
burn the ceiling,
the hardwood floors
grandpa waxed
melting dripping falling
and taking me

I rub myself with
ashes, memories.

Disappear inside
this place they
tried to make a home.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...