I am on fire
But not the empowering kind
Not the athletic kind
Not the sprinter burning toward a finish line, hands ready to hold up the sky in victory.
The kind where you stand outside a house beyond saving and watch it burn, just starting to feel the loss.
I am on fire, but I am not fire.
I am yellow earth, grass.
The shape of each flame is a blade of grass disappearing, a word I can’t hold in my mind long enough to make a sentence.
The shape of each flame never holds long enough to become poem.
I need stories, narrative, but only feel anger, pain, loss when I try to access them and am interrupted again and again.
These two young children can be my only story now, the only story I lose myself in, the only story I tell.
I am on fire. My daughter is the fire, loss and victory. My son is the sun, bright but burning.
My husband keeps planting seeds hoping we’ll get to the other side.