366 Days - Fire

My babysitter set herself on fire.

Not while she was watching us,

but years later. When we had already moved.

She was nearly grown up by then,

still lived in the house next to a field of milkweed.

I heard she poured a can of gasoline

over her head,

sat on her bed,

lit a match.

I can imagine the pain.

Not the physical pain,

because who can imagine that?

But the burn of words unspoken

cries for help like kindling,

small twigs and dry leaves, blowing.

Sparks of anguish melting

in the heat of a summer’s day.

Desperation igniting that way.

Sometimes when I smell smoke, I think of her.

Remember the corn

she would pop on the stove,

removing the top

watching two girls clap and twirl

as the snow-white kernels

fell around us like rain.