The Cure

MURIEL FISH

You called me Saturday morning.
I was sipping chamomile tea.
The cup trembled in my hands
while you outlined your plan.

Saturday night we slogged
through a snowstorm into
the woods behind your house,
our footsteps crunching snow.

The small cabin was a dank shadow
sheltered amidst trees. Your tears
sickened me like the stomach flu.

I had heard your whispered confessions:
beneath blankets during sleepovers,
while trying on lipstick at Woolworth’s;
over French fries at McDonald’s.

We stepped inside; under match-light I saw 
a stained sofa with one broken leg,
its lap a pubic snarl of stuffing dotted
with mouse turds the color of your father’s eyes.

This is where he brought you when your
mother worked late. You struck another match, 
tossed it onto the sofa and we ran outside.
The cabin caught fire; sparks danced behind us. 

Shivering, I waited while you snuck back
into the house, then I slipped down the road
to my car and drove home through the snow.

That night I dreamed smoke filled my room,
choking me with heat. Sunday morning,
I read about the fire in the newspapers. ARSON,
the headline said. I disconnected the phone
and boiled more water for tea.

• • •

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