Because she always falls asleep last, she regards the nape of the man beside her in bed, the outline of his leg, the slant of either moonlight or the motion- sensor light on the deck coming through bathroom blinds, then coming through the door. She remembers where they keep one fire extinguisher (at the bottom of the stairs nearest the stove) but doesn't know where the other one is. In the event of an emergency, says every ad that leaps out when they watch the late night news or when she's scrolling idly on her phone. She wants to tell the man beside her about her friend's husband who probably has more than two dozen fire extinguishers throughout their one-floor apartment. When she visited in April, they were pointed out to her so she wouldn't trip on them in the dark. His trauma, her friend explained: how an arsonist set fire to the safehouse he was hiding in and he got out, but not his other activist friends. Now she finds herself more watchful sometimes and amazed at how many things in the world are shaded the color of fire or a burn.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
