Fire
Kevin A. Risner
at the age of four / my house was a lightning rod / the roof bulged toward the purple sky / a magnet to saturated clouds / with eyes closed it sat alone / a lunar landscape / windows held wildfire as I walked closer / eyes focused on the upper floors / where I slept / the flames were brooms sweeping in the churning rhythm of a washing machine agitator
at the age of seven / I saw a scene at the start of a film / a man unlocked the front door / briefcase in hand / full of work to finish that night / turned the knob and opened the door / the collected energy of the fire within blew the door off its hinges / engulfed him completely / and that was his sole role / I think if that would happen to me / stand at the threshold / reach for the door handle / open it the tiniest crack / wait for the heat to come / I’d believe the wind would save me
at the age of thirty / I wake up in a sweat / July seems so far away / from the reality I want / nightmare anviled my brain / we want to have so much more time handed out to us / every minute / every day / but we open doors and become consumed by everything in the next room
