We’re half caged cardinals, half stray dobermans
let outside for good—that mix of fragile
and feral, our teeth aligning anew, hands no longer
stretching or unreliable, cavities filled
with growl and whistle—my mom brings nothing
but Pinterest with her and me
now that the house is on fire
like a lantern, silhouetted and illumined
by the heat that scythes a song from the roof’s metal
and soothes, in turn, the ruins below it;
we go into the woods beside what used to be
a well-manicured wilderness of a home
and has since caught aflame, sending us,
in a furl of feathers and tongue, from branch
to charred branch, until one breaks and drops us
back to earth so we can run
away from this place dying like a candle.
