David Luntz

When the fire started, 
I was sleeping. 

I escaped just 
before the house collapsed. 

I split the night open with grief—
I’d forgotten the cat. 

The next day I found him 
in a neighbor’s tree, 
feathers glued to his mouth, 
burnt matches tangled in his fur. 

I wept for joy. 

“Thank God,” I whispered, 
“I forgive you for not waking me—
but you—
how did you get out?”

He stops to cry, 
not knowing why. 
His parrot finishes it,
and laughs.

Elementary-school ants
on a field trip
circle an orange rind
beneath my rusty sink.

Their teacher:
“See how the flesh clings
to the peel. Give thanks.
Then take it home.”

In the corner,
a spider and her children
watch, shadow-still.

The mother weaves a web
over the praying ants.

The children trace
her flawless geometry
into the dirt, fangs glistening.

The eldest spiderling
eats her brother.