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On the Way to Chevron, My Father Tries
to Save My Life
We are driving to gas up my car when he turns to me.
Says, There's something I should tell you.
Says, Truth is, I've worried it could happen to you.
Says, There've been women burned clear to death.
Says, I know it's weird, but I wanted you to know.
Then he pauses. Embarrassed.
In his pause is room enough for me
to think, holy shit and, self-immolation.
To wonder if he senses, after all, the part of me
that verges, always, on combustion.
Smoldering heart I fight to keep
from flaring up and engulfing
the small spaces I cram myself into.
Day after day in the laundry room and kitchen,
narrow confinement of the bathroom.
My washer and dryer spin out the years,
murmuring not done, not done, not done.
Dinners no one likes bubble over,
God help me, night after night on the stove.
And the toilet is bolted so close to the wall,
the only way to get it clean is on my knees.
Some days, I rest there like a sick person—
head lolled over, hair in my face—
and listen while my children trash the house.
I'm glad the mirror cannot find me
way down there: a controlled burn of a woman
where a raging goddamn wildfire might have been.
I stop the car, and he starts again, my father.
Says, You've got to stay outside while you pump your gas.
Says, You sit back down, you're building up static.
Says, Spark'll jump right down the gas tank and light you up.
Says, Touch something before the nozzle. Discharge your spark.
Promise me, he says, you'll do it every time.
Later, walking room to room to watch my family sleep,
I stand at each bedside in the dark
not knowing where it's safe to put my hands.
~ Francesca Bell
first appeared in Willow Springs
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