Scorched

A smoke cloud erupting from the window
Floats to the sky where you are staring,
Looking up and swearing.
The shrill sound of the smoke alarm
Continues to ring in my ears.
The buzzing coincides with your yelling
And there’s no drowning it out.
The tile is cold on my bare feet
And my bathrobe is a nuisance
Constantly flapping open.
I am too scared to tell you “shut up”
So I whisper it, knowing you can’t hear,
But feeling satisfied in standing up for myself.
“No,” I say, barley audible,
“I wasn’t asleep, I was showering.”
I cough, the smoke filling my lungs,
Eyes watering. You’re still in your suit
As you set down your briefcase.
Here is where I imagine you picking me up
And whisking me to the bedroom,
Saving me from the quickly forgotten flames.
This is far from reality.
You curse one last time before retreating to our room alone,
slamming the door, locking it.
I pull on the thick cloth mitts
And daringly open the oven door.
A black cloud, even denser than what has
Already escaped, fills the room,

And I am defeated.

My tears sizzle as they drop one by one
Onto the scorched chicken.
I had never promised I could cook.