Bluefield, West Virginia, 1961
First time I watch my sister set a fire
she’s twelve & I’se eight. Mama & Daddy leave
fa a card party, which mean Rosie & Billy
flee fa they secret flames, which mean
the middle kids—Harold & Velma & Lois—
ain’t too far behind em spyin. Foot knowledge can learn
ya faster than books. Dirt & rock & branch & bush
be as kindred as kin. Then, the house empty
of all our beloveds, and it’s just my sister
& me, my sister & her school saddle shoes,
which she did not love. They ain’t had no scuffs,
but brown specs caked em like dirty powdered sugar,
tintin white leather pee yella lye could neva
make clean. My sister say her shoes too ugly to be redeemed.
She say reee-deeemed like it cost five whole dollas,
slow & careful like Mama puttin milk & butter
& bacon & bread on account at the comp’ny store,
hopin Daddy tagged enuf coal cars,
haulin loads large enuf to break
even. Bein that she had reached fa that word & found
she could afford it, my sister tried to free herself
from three years of ugly ducklin livin, three years
of wearin the same shoes to school, since our folks
would not replace what they could repair.
She seized what she sized up as her only chance
to waste leftovers. First I thought she was kindlin
the stove’s coal & wood chips to warm up pintos
from last night’s supper, but when heat hovered
hot as a pissed spirit a horseshoed doorway couldn’t
keep away, when a hankerin fa new shoes flickered
in her peepers like a just-struck match, by the time I
noticed her knowin strike a-ha lightnin fast, it was
too late to redeem her. The stink of meltin skin
& rubber blew threw our kitchen. A groan
slid slow & careful like it was calculatin
a bill that ain’t add up: burner plate lid lifted,
lard slathered leather, the fiery tongue tested
and still clutched in her blistered
fingertips, my sister’s disbelievin.