he called me at 11:30 pm
as is our tradition of three years
he asked me if he could tell me a story
i love stories; my answer was yes
he told me a good one
but a scary one
about a girl with feelings as fleeting as lightning and about a boy with a heart like feathers and gasoline
about a girl who was all too ready to light the fire
before the winter even began
he talked about a house in pennsylvania with their names engraved on the welcome mat
with bills in the mailbox and christmas cards from family
with a cherry red door
and vines growing on the white rails
my mother's robin's egg blue teapot set in the china shelves
somewhere on an afghan rug in the house, a bichon frise named Maya waits for me
there's a military uniform, used and hung up.
done with.
there's a bassinette upstairs, and flowers in the yard
there's a storm coming from the west
but the house is storm proof
"what happens next!" I demand.
"happy new year," he says simply, with the tiniest sigh. "i love you."
YOU ARE READING
homeland burning
Poetryhear your homeland calling as it burns to ash. 2017, wiildflowerhoney.
