“Me, Brighid!”





Our brows hang low.

Two sets of eyes rake the streets for signs –

a roof whistling with heat like a kettle,

blood clots of gawkers,

the wound of a battering ram.





The news had come as a smell in the air that

put on all our lips and tongues The Theory.

The baby, not fluent in smells, heard

our rubbernecked humming

and said, I want to see the house on fire!





She has said, But I wanted to sleep in the flowers!

and Shoo! Shoo!

and Remarkable!

and now this,

and so I say yes!





She should see the house on fire, yes.

She, blonde and blue, milky- and moonish-white.

Now, while she can still gasp and gaze – as at a

firework show

over a hot, glass river –

and marvel, unobliged to pity.

And we’ll point and make O’s with our mouths at each other,

and the sky will rain paper, and flame-warped photos of

men who look like accordions

– Amazing!