Escape

I do not fault him for the parts we left inside, for the parts we let out, nor for our barn burning against the blue sky. I think of them in the meadow: mother’s cotton nightgown whipping in the wind, the broken beams of father’s handiwork stirring the night with smoke signals, the field mice escaping like a tidal wave, my brother, a black silhouette, standing in front of his masterpiece like a severed ear.