House Fire

                        The worst is not,
So long as we can say, “This is the worst.”
                   –King Lear, act 4, sc.1

The unspeakable moved through me like a pageant.

I watched it run its course;
I was in control and still
I marveled, a child clamoring
for the rainbow flowers
until up close she sees the shredded tissues,
all those reds and pinks
bleeding in the heat.

                                (Stop, rewind:

It was not hot
here, in September, late evening,
first lightning of the season.
And I didn’t so much watch
as follow directions: This is where
the roof caves in, laddering to ash;
this is where your desk flies
from the second story window
in flames . . .)

                       I never knew
a house could be so lovely
exploding. A closet, a bedroom,
such tidy novas; but the entire
upstairs hallway spared
because fire craves air and will
leap leagues to find it.
I stood there as long as I could,
I accepted everything —
the firemen’s shouts,
the worn bathrobe,
my neighbor’s glistening cheek
and despair holding me up like a torch,
even the weird refreshment
of the breeze the rain swept in on,
finally: first drops
of the promised storm.

Copyright © 2005 Rita Dove All rights reserved
from Runes
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission