Is it because my mother stood at 5 years old
barefoot in the snow with night shirted
siblings half-awake while their home and all
its contents perished that I glance to the window
of my home every time I leave or arrive
half-expecting flames to be licking window frames
disintegrating curtains swallowing sofas
stealing every comfort.
The idea that we are a moment away from disaster
Is with me even in the shower as I race before the water
Supply ends or guns burst in some political shakedown—
A friend from Chile told me of bundles of clothes
Enough for escape at the foot of her bed at night her
Grandfather taken in the middle of the day
I picture him stirring milk into coffee
Writing a letter with no thoughts of preparedness
Like a flash or a flame
He was gone.
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