The Fire was Here by Anna Enquist

Hardcover: ISBN: 1-902881-81-8 Pages: 120 8ľ"x5ľ" US$ 17.95
Publication date: October 2003

Scenes of Childhood

I My Son
My son storms through the house,
a drumroll down the stairs.
He's driven by his self. The song
that lives inside him bursts
out now and then. I catch
him singing unawares and listen.

At night he's scared, uncertain
of himself and us, the world.
I take him in my arms
and wordlessly I smooth away
war, kids with cancer, the worst monstrosity.

I tell him lies that save him till
we’re both asleep in forged security.

II Botanical Gardens by Night
In the evening, in the rain,
we visit the Victoria amazonica.
She lives under fairy lights in a sideshow tent
and there she unfurls her royal petals.
A guide explains and the audience listens.

My kids and I huddle off to one side,
whispering softly of the jungle:
velvet nights, the pineapple scent,
a snake catches itself on the spines—

oh, so much for me to miss,
with every day that comes so much
to bid farewell and leave behind.

III Conversations with the Children
At dinner we talk about
cruel. Singing a song
that makes someone cry,
and knowing it would, they say,
waving their spoons. Sure.

Or using a light to lure
the slow black lobster. You
in the prow. The creatures hurry,
unable to do a thing but rush
toward that shivering glitter
behind the mesh death.

Worst of all, they both agree,
the dagger thrust. That something whole,
unblemished, can so abruptly
be attacked, no longer just itself,
but in conjunction with a knife
that cuts and breaches, demanding entry.

Wounded, mesmerized, touched,
I hear them unsuspectingly
designate the arsenal of love
as cruel. Without a moment's doubt.
Above my soup, I hold my tongue.

(Schumann, Scenes of Childhood, Opus 15)