There is a fire:
Five foot four, with tongues of flame,
sipping beer, tasting glass, spitting shards.
Four walls, no doors, one window, shrouded in darkness.
The heat builds, smoke rising, obscuring the way out.
“It’s nothing,” you say,
“It’s not my fault,” you say,
“I’ll stop this time,” you say,
an incantation for the last sixteen years.
It’s the same dance, accusations and defenses
laced with excuses and empty promises,
we’ve all been doing it since I can remember.
My father leaves the room,
cowering through the flames licking at his heels,
showing me the way out, lifting the latch to the window.
He does not take me with him;
I stay, even though I know better.
I face the chaos with the bravado of a child,
grasping for clarity,
gasping for air.
Shaking, spineless, silenced.
I cannot fix it,
I’m helpless to change it;
I clean up, business as usual, just let it pass.
Eventually, you get well.
The fire is quiet,
a flickering flame in a candle, burning sweetly.
The only evidence of the fire is ash
swept and gathered in dusty corners.
My father returns from his hideout,
welcoming you back with open arms and loving memories.
You get out of bed, you do the laundry,
you go to work, you feed the dog.
You remind me that there is no fire,
there never was any fire,
there won’t ever be any more fire.
I used to believe you when you promised to stop,
when you said I could trust you,
when you battled the flames even though you were the fire --
and you won.
But embers glowing brightly don’t die,
they’re never fully extinguished.
With the tiniest gust of wind, they can be rekindled,
growing and morphing,
moving, burning, suffocating,
cyclical, unpredictable
chaos.