by Emily Kingery
Remember our game, how I would wait
at the edge of your backyard for hours
with insects shrieking, expecting soon
the spark would catch? That the lamps
would short, the doors would gray
like match heads, your wife would ash
as your daughter crawled out for me
and the beams fell black behind you?
I loved that game. We became ourselves,
our bodies forged by arson. Our hands
turned criminal, sculptures of better hands.
We posed them in our imaginary home,
a place where the girl could play by our light.
We watched her cupping fireflies, but she
has learned by now to unhinge the wings.
About the Author
Emily Kingery is an Assistant Professor of English at St. Ambrose University in Davenport, Iowa, where she teaches courses in literature, writing, and linguistics. She serves on the board of directors at the Midwest Writing Center, a non-profit organization that supports writers in the Quad Cities community.