We shiver in front of the singed garage
wondering how we missed the fire,
who we’ve become tucked into winter
books so tightly by 4 pm
we don’t hear sirens or smell smoke,
don’t see ash drifting like broken sky,
even now don’t know if the door
melted into the standing wall
means the kitchen, too, is gone,
if macaroni boiled while the family
fumbled for boots and keys,
if these walls shed their pink insulation
like bridesmaids’ dresses after the reception
as we closed our blinds and dulled ourselves
with oatmeal stout and popcorn, one of us
licking a cracked finger to turn the page,
so eager to know what happens next.