Kindled, the fire fed itself,
seething, ebullient on blistered wood,
fuming and reeking in the humid night.
The crimson sky above the house
pinwheeled and snapped in shingle
blast, roof twist,
the blaze of burning air.
At the head of the stairs
three small boys,
Jontae, Andre, Fontel,
held each other
and screamed. Transcalent,
the steps sagged and gave way.
Illuminate and hot blooded,
their tiny hearts were cauterized.
But on their mother’s tongue
their names remain
as vowels, incombustible.
Issue