This
is a
Fire
Emile DeWeaver
36
I wanted to become
When I was 6
a movie theatre. Masses
would gather at my
doors, dreamy for
the world within. Lovers
would strain armrests,
wild fingers spreading
zippers; boys would lob
popped corn from my balconies;
mothers admonishing children
not to be like boys, not to
stare at zippers, would take
napkins to chocolate-dirty cheeks.
My father was walking me across
a dry field fenced on the traffic
side when I told him; he plucked
a Marlboro that glowed like a siren
from his lips, tossed filter and
flame onto the tinder—no son of my father would have strangers
crowding inside him and sticking
gum under his seats and
spitting semen on his carpets.
from his lips, tossed filter and
flame onto the tinder—no son of
my father would have strangers
crowding inside him and sticking
gum under his seats and
spitting semen on his carpets.