desultory splashes
of kerosene
that she applied
to the walls
took on the ominous
appearance of urine,
as if some rampant
drunk house guest
at a too-loud
too-good party
had begun writing his name
with his dick
flailing to the flocked paper –
sour indignity
disgracing the faux velvet luxury.
so she let her hate
be born again
emptied bottle after another
down the walls
liquid seething into cushion
floors darkening,
reversing all the piecemeal years,
every edifice of them
revealed to be ramshackle.
she took one
last look at the place
darkened and wet
fuming with the reek
of memory and fuel.
he was standing on the step
and as she slammed
the door shut behind her
bottle in his hand
wick lit already.
eleanor j jackson 