Instructions for Building a Fire Escape

First, locate the heat.

Not the visible flames—

those are theatrical,

orange-mouthed and bragging.

Find instead

the quiet combustion:

the compliment that lands like sandpaper,

the laugh that measures you for a smaller room,

the way your name sounds

in someone else’s mouth

when they are about to reduce it.

This is how buildings burn—

not all at once,

but in permissions.

My father preferred his coffee black.

Start there.

Stack the kindling of almosts:

almost chosen,

almost heard,

almost enough.

Soak them in the accelerant of comparison.

Strike memory against memory

until something catches.

Stand very still

and call it patience.

By the time the smoke appears

you will have rehearsed the story

in which you are reasonable.

You will have diagrams.

Blueprints of restraint.

A thesis on why this is fine.

The emergency exit is located on the left side of the aircraft.

Ignore that.

There is no aircraft.

There is only a kitchen

with a ceiling fan stirring heat

into a slow cyclone.

There is only a body

learning the architecture of endurance—

how to swallow sparks,

how to cup a flame

like it is a fragile animal

that must not be startled.

When the sirens finally speak,

they will not accuse you.

They will not praise you either.

They will circle the block

as if sound alone

could redraw the structure.

By then,

the walls will be honest.

Studs exposed.

Insulation confessing its soft betrayals.

And you will understand:

A fire escape is not a ladder.

It is a decision

made before the match.

It is knowing which sentence

to refuse.

It is leaving

while the house

still calls itself

home.