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| Fire did this.
Left its mark on all we once thought immutable, spires of glass, gutted, gaunt, dark against the twilight. People said flesh was fragile, and we nodded, feeling wise over coffee and newspapers. We knew, but we did not know, that concrete could burst from within if heated quickly, a broad avenue become a black river, the soles of our shoes melt. In your sloped shoulders, your fingers, black and strange as spiders, lie ruined hints of one I loved, like a city where trees perfumed the April air and boys sold bags of peanuts. I am sorry for the pain, for the way it changed us. I know we swore. But nothing is stronger than fire. copyright 1998 Nancy Etchemendy |