The fire started in the twelfth grade. 

First, it licked our barefooted toes.

 

It ate the living room carpet

and pried the charred kitchen floor boards from their place. 

 

It snaked its way up to our 

naive little eardrums

and whispered our darkest fears. 

 

We scrambled to escape 

our sliding windows 

and the looming gate that threatened 

to lock us into the place that we were. 

 

But we cracked the windows

and left the streets bare 

and we cried as kids but there was something there.

There were lions in our ribcages  

and fiery places

and in all our hopes and daydreams.

 

In the clamber for that 

glittering something,

we clawed the shudders

and trampled all the daisies in our 

glass terrarium heart. 

 

We mistook our hunger 

for bravery 

and turned our cheek 

from the teetering swing set 

on which we used to pilot

and, instead, 

curled our hair like the playground slide 

and wore neckties 

as stifling as those hot summer days

when ice cream was dripping down our 

fingertips 

and we forgot what it tasted like. 

 

Because we were chasing 

the city marquees

instead of fireflies. 

 

We thought that was just how people grew up. 

 

And we thought we were mighty 

in our charcoal business suits 

sewn from our pillaged school rooms 

and rudimentary drawings 

that hung from our refrigerator.

 

But we burnt them down

on the way out the door 

and tossed

the baseball mitt and frilly bows 

in the wastebasket 

because we thought 

we had outgrown them. 

 

Our caged lions became 

enshrouded 

in self-assurance 

and the misconception that 

we are not who we used to be, 

but our childhood is always 

pressing into our backs

It’s the cage 

and the key 

It’s the only thing that can hollow you out 

and leave you with nothing else but your hands in your pockets

and that fire.

That fire in your heart 

and that fire at your toes 

and that fire that made you

run. 

 

That fire 

in our eyes and 

that smoke 

billowing out from our words 

as we left our playground 

far behind and 

chased the city ligts

until we couldn’t hear the floorboards 

cracking. 

 

But was that really what we wanted? 

Did we really look past our 

childhood homes 

and wrap-around porches 

and tear down our favorite posters 

in the chase 

for that something that would make us 

great? 

Did we forget who we were 

in the scramble to become 

or were we nothing more 

than lazy dande

lions without any courage?

The ones that cluttered our front yard 

and were swept up 

with the Autumn breezes

and wherever the fame could take us. 

 

Maybe we cried as kids 

because we never wanted to 

end up like this, 

but we knew 

that growing up was inevitable.

It looked capable of

swallowing you whole 

and maybe, 

in the end, 

it did.