Hazy, Barbara wonders
at our faces, the bonfire
built by other hands.
Blackcats burst
onto bricks. Mississippi,
January, unseasonably cold.
We light fireworks
that smoke in dry grass.
Barbara says she’s sorry
for her drunkenness.
At our “It’s alright,”
she spits, “I ain’t talkin’ to you,”
then says again
“I’m sorry.”
Barbara caroms to the kitchen
for alcohol, cusses us, spews beer.
Barbara, we say. We’re sorry
you’re drunk, too.
Later she stumbles
to the fire, face bloody.
We tell her we’re leaving,
get in cars, ease down the street.
In the rearview, Barbara sits,
banks the fire.
