In the apartment where I left the candle burning,
the rabbit and the bird must have seen the flame
jump from wick to lace tablecloth, must have smelled
the smoke which blackened the ceiling, slowly eating
its way through my notebook, my mail, and the
wood of the small walnut table, the way our histories
can consume the present until nothing is left, must have
looked for a way out, and must have heard the fire alarm
piercing the quiet of the building. Did they know to blame
me? Who fed them and spoke softly to them? And when
the strangers came in masks, found them huddled together,
and rushed them outside into the clean December air,
as they gulped the good oxygen, did they imagine
freedom? Only to be placed in my arms again,
my wet face buried in their feathers and fur?
