DAWN POTTER
SONNETS FOR THE ARSONIST
1.
On the morning the house burnt,
Flames smoldered among the laths.
Chunks of horsehair plaster
Shattered into clouds of dust.
In the oaks, two sparrows
Sputtered into silence.
When he was done with what he did,
Pop snapped a photo of the blaze
(Such as it was)
And another of the yard beside it,
Charred yet greening,
Dandelions clawing from the rubble,
Swallowtails flitting, an old dog
Rolling joyfully in the scent of death.
2.
Ignis fatuus was
Not a phrase
Pop admired. He
Had no use
For Molotov cocktails,
Gas cans, or
Bic lighters. “A
Fire requires,” he
Wrote, “A kitchen
Match, A pocket
Of twigs (Dry)
A steady Hand.”
He took pride in his work.
And he worked for free.
3.
After Mama leaped out
The flaming second-story window
And broke both old legs and punctured
Her liver and the ambulance lugged her off to die,
A deer hunter ran up against Pop in the woods,
Found him striding through the ferns,
Gripping a little cardboard suitcase,
And staring into the setting sun.
Right away Pop said,
“She asked me to do it.”
Then he sat down on a log
And unwrapped two ham sandwiches
And told the deer hunter
To call the cops.
4.
Some say
The word means
The malicious setting on fire
Of a house, a ship, a forest,
And some say
The word derives from
Latin “ardere”—more at ARDOR,
But God says
The word in my heart
Is like a fire,
A fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in.
Indeed,
I cannot.
Dawn Potter is the author of eight books of prose and poetry. She directs the Frost Place Conference on Poetry and Teaching, serves on the faculty of 24PearlStreet, and lives in Portland, ME.