You call to say you can’t leave
the building. Fire hazard
comes to mind first. 22 years of being
a fireman’s daughter, stories of ash,
smoke, charred two-by-fours. Somewhere
an odontologist is comparing an x-ray
against a set of teeth. Right now
someone is waiting for a phone call
or an officer at the door, the vacancy
that bad news brings.

I’ve seen you climb a rickety ladder,
watched you board a plane I didn’t trust.
I’ve held my breath listening
to the pause in yours while you slept,
that long catch of loneliness
until you inhale again. 9 years of being
a wife. There are spaces I never want
to inhabit. Fires that can’t be put out.

-Leigh Anne Hornfeldt