the house

 second draft, minor changes.

the house

there is a house on fire.
white, horizontal beams,
smoke curling over expansive green
the sound of lawnmowers buzz buzzing
stop for a moment to watch the flames
rise.


this fire
has been years in the making.
it built up from within the walls,
unnoticed for so long,
the white paint
showing no indication
of the fire within
until 


fire born from cold
silent dinners
resentment simmering
subtle explosions
of pure rage
an eternity of contempt
surfacing
beams smoldering from within
and the paint begins to peel,
blistering,
bubbling,
square inch
by square inch
and reaching the corner
where wall meets ceiling
falling in sheets to the floor,
the carpet goes next
singed at the edges
and then unstoppable.


he drinks alone now.
the den
with the picture window
the fire closing in
on him
and follows her path,
there on the hill,
by the tree,
smoking cigarettes
and watching 
this final burning.


she walks the perimeter,
where lawn meets wood
past gentle slopes of leaf litter
and grass trimmings
and down to gravel
to asphalt
to mailbox and car
and up again,
leaning against the tree,
smoking cigarettes
and watching
this final burn.


it’s finished now,
the eventual blossoming
the blessed conflagration
that made an end,
but no phoenix rising
and no revelation.

just this:
a woman, smoking,
watching the charred remains.
a man, drinking, 
sitting among them.

Charles Imbelli
2010