Morning in the Burned House

    In the burned house I am eating breakfast.

    You understand： there is no house， there is no breakfast，

    yet here I am.

    The spoon which was melted scrapes against

    the bowl which was melted also.

    No one else is around.

    Where have they gone to， brother and sister，

    mother and father？ Off along the shore，

    perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers¹，

    their dishes piled beside the sink，

    which is beside the woodstove

    with its grate and sooty kettle，

    every detail clear，

    tin cup and rippled² mirror.

    The day is bright and songless，

    the lake is blue， the forest watchful³.

    In the east a bank of cloud

    rises up silently like dark bread.

    I can see the swirls⁴ in the oilcloth，

    I can see the flaws in the glass，

    those flares⁵ where the sun hits them.

    I can't see my own arms and legs

    or know if this is a trap or blessing⁶，

    finding myself back here， where everything

    in this house has long been over，

    kettle and mirror， spoon and bowl，

    including my own body，

    including the body I had then，

    including the body I have now

    as I sit at this morning table， alone and happy，

    bare child's feet on the scorched⁷ floorboards

    （I can almost see）

    in my burning clothes， the thin green shorts

    and grubby yellow T-shirt

    holding my cindery⁸， non-existent，

    radiant flesh. Incandescent⁹.