FIRE

Even though the siren is in the distance,
you know where it's heading.

Even though the fire has not yet begun,
your burning is in progress.

It began somewhere behind your eyes.
And though it was just a slow smoldering heat,

you immediately sensed it's greed.
That was when you first began

crawling through your life on hands and knees
hoarding oxygen in your clenched fists.

You know what is coming--
With sorrow, you watch those who are

still walking upright, inhaling smoke in gulps.
But there is little time for warnings

when the smoke is already acid in your eye.
You keep crawling at a steady pace,

watching the signs and arrows
that lead to the roof.

And when you arrive, well-trained
from a lifetime of fire drills,

you exit the building like a victor.
From below, the blind crowd screams.

Clearly, they don't understand
that you are one step ahead of the rescue team,

that you are wearing a red cross over your heart
and have come to save yourself

as best you know how. Their voices break open
like sirens as if they didn't see

the flames splattering in relief on the street,
the smoke dissolving in the air.


This poem, written many years ago and long forgotten, first appeared in the wonderful and now defunct Poetry Northwest. Reading it now, I am startled by its dark vision. It seems to have been written by a stranger.