As the city ran backwards,
I, from the backseat, was looking at
the black, balding head of a man
I was to call father.

As we drove past the gray buildings,
he asked me if I remembered the house
we used to live in, he and mom and all,
when I was very little.

I said no, I didn’t.

I remembered
there were three red swing sets
in front of the house,
in a yard full of baby grass.

I didn’t tell him;
what he wanted, I didn’t know.

There were three red swing sets
in front of the house,
in a yard full of baby grass.
She tied me up on the middle one.

I must not have cried,
for who could have left a crying child?
I must have been very still.
My usual self.

I couldn’t watch her leave;
my eyes were too full of the flames,
the beautiful, voracious orange
that consumed the house
and glided towards me.