A Looser Version of the Same History

Risks, temptations: how we were mad to grab them, set the kettles on the shadowed ends

of stoves. Daring them to whistle themselves to pieces, we jammed the tops down, refused

to let the copper lids flip off. Back then, we saw accidents as just mistakes, not fated: not once

did we tell our relatives to get gone. It would have seemed unfair, muddying up the message

with family lines. Some women, hardly bashful, would have demanded sighs of airy gold, woven

claims of innocence, deceit. Listening, we had no way to stop them; we allowed the air to sputter on.

Some heat, some weight, nothing burned until tomorrow: everything we said would shatter did,

and all the elements that could have broken (glass, blue wings) only flickered on the opposite wall.