She struck the match
and watched the flame.
She touched the wallpaper that hang.
The wall and ceiling burst
ablaze.

At first she thought to put it out.
Remembered the tub of water atop
th' wood stove-burning stove, heating
for family laundry and house cleaning.
She could not lift it--
She didn't try.

Grabbing brother's hand
out the backdoor they ran.
Afraid
in the outhouse they hid.

It was a hot summer day.
Mother wearing her swimsuit only,
lying in the living room smoking,
reading mysteries and drinking coffee,
smelled the smoke and heard the crackle
from the firey inferno.

Panic stricken, she entered the room
to search for children she feared doomed.
Under the bed, behind the door, in the closet
she searched
the room of hell.

They were no where to be found.
Hands and hair singed,
and nostrils full of smoke,
she ran out the back door--
filled with fear, and afraid to hope.

She saw four little hands
on the outhouse door.

Four little eyes were peeking 'round
to see relief and not a frown.

Later
when she tried to explain
about the wallpaper that hang
and her intention to burn a bit--
just the part hanging down--
but not th' whole dang house!

She was four
her brother, two.
It was a good thing she'd tried to do.

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