Not everyone in the beautiful house
was on fire
but those of us on fire were discouraged
from talking about it
after long enough of being on fire
you can talk of nothing else
at this juncture the dinner parties
became very awkward
according to everyone who was
not on fire
but for the rest of us things were more
“devastating” or “fatal”
blistering through the soup course
sloughing ash over coffee
sometimes after dinner
in the drawing room
another guest, not on fire, would sidle up
and hiss a whisper
about our resilience but never pour us
a glass of water
when the revolution came
we were dreaming of rain
it had not rained in one hundred
and thirty two years
since the beautiful house was built
some of us born on fire had never seen rain
we set fire to the beautiful house
like we never had lived there
[if one can be said to have lived
in a place
where a vital condition of self
can never be mentioned]
it was just a matter of standing
too close to the curtains
or leaning against dry timbers
which was easy
as those not on fire got nervous
if we were too close
to their conversations. the room
went up in flames
they had to evacuate
we remained,
the pillar of flame ascended
almost to heaven
as storm clouds gathered. it was rain
that put out the blaze
it was no one who sat with us
at dinner
no one in the beautiful house
with their sinks and wells and cisterns
their ewers and basins and water piped in
from under the mountains
now it's no one’s beautiful house
so perhaps that answers the question
of whose: no one’s. no longer a house.
and the fields are greening.
Ann Eleven is a queer non-binary writer and librarian. She lives in Chicago and tweets @junkyardattic.