Fire Drill
Poem by Claudia Emerson •
Photo by Louise Kumpf
 Bells sound them from sleep, and their imaginations rise, recite all they have been told: the curtains on fire, the beds, nightgowns, their hair, their hair. They’ve practiced this escape before and know to close the windows last, descend the darkened flights of stairs in perfect wordlessness to line up, barefoot, on the dew-wet lawn, face the building, pretend to watch it burn. Previously published in The Greensboro Review. |