Abandoned House

Growing up in the aftermath of a government penned
plot twist, you learn to sleep through wanton wailings
flung skyward. Fired from mouths of folks who’ve no
home but the hug of a fresh high. Their chorus folds
into the hood sonata & you slumber as though crack
has always been here. I recall a night when the cries
were sharp enough to slice through even practiced sleep.
Dozens left the warmth of handmade duvets, taking to
their porches to spy the goings-on. A man my momma
was seeing dashed into the room his children & I slept in
—Get up, now! Shoes on! We, in all our groggy, heard
a man speak & so we knew a swift hand would catch
the slow to heed. We filed out of bed, out the door into
a glowing night. The house on the corner nearly invisible
beneath the flames, gnawing its face to memory.
A young version of me marvels at the muscularity—
how, left untended, a fire becomes a hungry choir,
mouths yellowed & gnashing. Singing not of Psalms
but of Revelations. A bucket heavy with sloshing water
is thrust into my hands & I realize I am standing in a line
of civilians ten houses deep, no sirens within earshot, no
help on the way. Pass it on! Hurry! I do, confused. A breeze
carries the heat down the block sending the blaze higher
into the moonless sky, conjuring sweat on every brow.