by Daniel Romo
The babies are burning in buildings. They wear flame retardant Onesies because their parents saw their futures as fetuses. It’s not working. The material melts through the skin seeping into sour breast milk sucked during the last seconds of serenity. They don’t cry. Fatal fumes fit into mouths: pestilential pacifiers putting them to sleep. Their ashes float from high rises: a ticker-tape tragedy. Fathers blame themselves. Say lives that little can’t be loved so hard. Mothers don’t speak. Sit in rocking chairs; eyes the color of smoke. Back and forth, back and forth. Shake rattle, shake.
-refers from the word “burning” in I’m Not Ready by Darren Edwards