You taught me how to light fires, remember? You made me light them. *** I passed my exams, swept the drills, carried the hose like all the men. You laughed to think I could be paid a fair wage to tame fire. You grimaced at my buff arms and legs, forgetting you were integral in their development. All my life, I've been enslaved by you: tending the stove pilot, baffling the hearth embers, lugging the oil lamps, stacking the kindling, shoveling the coal in the basement. I had so much practice. For all I did for you and your tiny, pedicured toes, you should've been proud when I became the first woman to join the fire department. My feet weren't too small for those boots. *** After that day, when they delivered my slipper and you broke it because you didn't want them to know the truth, I vowed to perfect my mastery over fire. I found my half-sisters' illegitimately soiled mattresses at curbside awaiting collection. You put them there in the middle of the night, I know. What…you thought I wouldn't notice them? I tucked flaming matchsticks in all eight corners, watched the burn race into itself. Later, I blew to smithereens the bulging trash receptacles in our high-end suburb using fireworks leftover from the ball. And you thought it was gangbangers from the other side of town. And when I accompanied you to that soiree, to change your diapers and give you your pills, it was me who turned the gas on high in that ostentatious kitchen, who left burning bags of your shit on that celebrated stoop after I'd escorted you to the car. You didn't even thank me for saving your life. All you could think about were the victims. Like I haven't been one? Well, for no longer. Tomorrow, I'll burn down the Macy's where you shop on Wednesdays. Call it attention deficit, if you like. I'll call it a fire sale. You taught me how to light them, remember? You made me light them. You should be proud of my success. I mean, think about it: From this fire I can forge any kind of glass shoe I want. __________________________________ |