The Arsonist

In the false daylight of the full moon, 

The arsonist doesn’t need to make an effort

At hiding his hungry intentions. 

His love for fire is an unconscious urge, 

A promise of salvation in the popping crackling flames,

A place of belonging in the smoke haze. 

For so long we’ve stubbornly clung

To a persistent delusion that our house was unlike the others. 

We scoffed at the heretics, pointing out what it really was;

A pile of dead leaves and dried wood soaked in gasoline

In a barren field in the middle of a lightning storm. 

In years gone by, when the fire found us,

It never consumed us completely. 

We swept up the ashes, 

Patched over the scars, 

Insisted on downplaying the danger

Ignoring the fractures it exposed. 

When the arsonist sought out our neighbors, 

We swooped in as heroes,

Patted ourselves on the back, expecting exaltation

Smugly suggesting that if they follow our lead

It would never happen again. 

We stopped training firefighters, 

Nobody bothered to check the hoses. 

Naked in the dancing orange light, 

We finally saw it for what it was. 

What will we be in the aftermath?

Already the liars are picking up their rakes

Conjuring new piles to call home,  

Proclaiming the arsonist a savior.