deciding
BY EDGAR KUNZ
Not the sirens. Not the men
dragging canvas, the canceled-
out moon, the ash windblown
and snarling in our hair. Not
the sick crack of the ridge-beam
or the gun-clapped silence
after. Not the four of us, brothers
and our sometimes father,
our breath knit and drifting,
our useless hands. I mean
when I lift Noah, half-asleep,
to my chest and turn
for home. When I look up
at the windows of our own house
and see the flames
cold and writhing
in the glass. That first time
I say it out loud: I’m
gonna go. And the slow walk
up the drive. And my brother
growing heavy
in my arms.