David Luntz

Arsonist 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?”

An amnesiac reads his old poem aloud He stops to cry, not knowing why. His parrot finishes it, and laughs. Life Lessons 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.