this is not a drill

this is not a drill
this is me pulling
my own body's fire alarm--
skin wailing
red-- the bells
burst out of
my jaws-- there
are sirens within us
that cannot be held
by the softness of
skin-- the scream
of bone marrow
& flash of light
protruding
from my mouth 
this 
is rushing out
on the front lawn--
sitting in
the dew-slick grass--
blue boxer shorts
wet feet--
i turn to look
at the body i run
away from & there
she is-- 
hands folded over
her chest-- 
asleep--
a pharaoh-- anubis
looming in a 
gray static cloud
waiting to 
begin by removing 
the heart-- 
you tell me
that you left your
laptop on the
night stand
& you want
to go back inside &
i tell you that
the fire alarm
is still laughing
& it's best to
let the joke play out--
smoke from my nostrils--
how can you stand
at a distance
& watch a body beg
for your return?
she opens windows
unlocks the cellar door
but out here i don't 
have to feel
the throbbing
of my own anxious
heart-- there 
is no fire-- no
oily mirror skin--
no bite marks from
match sticks--
no top drawers
of desks-- 
i'll stay out here &
the moon will wash me
in cool white water
& i will test
how far away i can
walk before
i start to feel
faint-- all
the way up east nineth
avenue to the little
park with a pavillion
& the purple
jungle gym
that i'm too big for--
i will still hear
the sirens from there
& know that there
is only so far you
can walk away 
from your veins
before
they take you back--
wool & course--
knitting you home--
has someone come
to put out the fire?
there's a child in
the second floor
bed room & she 
is not done believing
in the loch ness monster--
go get her first
stand back while 
the fire men climb
you arms-- hook
ladders to your ears--
your mouth--
break down the 
doorway of your eyelids
& they see no fire
& they are dissapointed
because they were hoping
to see a fire
as everyone is hoping to
see some sort of fire 
when the arrive to
the scene of a 
screaming body-- soul
detached & drinking
moon water in waiting--
the fire men give up 
& go home-- angered
by the absence of
flame-- little
girl from the second
floor bed room
slung over one
of their
shoulder-- they 
set her in the grass &
take turns wondering
what has made her lips
to blue  & her skin
so waxy--
when they leave
i walk up to her--
run my fingers through
her knotted damp hair
& tell her that 
i'm going back-- that
i promise i'll go back--
grab my arm-hair
to hoist myself up--
i'm taking us
home-- smoke alarms
& all--
in through my mouth--
we walk across my
tongue & i taste
the fear & melancholy 
of the thin
soles of my feet--
let's be swallowed
together
in flashing red &
imaginary ignition--
the process of
breathing smoke 
begins with accepting
the grey air
& then becomes
a game of how
desperately 
you want to inhale--
you're letting
out the red-scream
you're releasing
the earthquakes 
from your lips--
she's asleep now
again
in the second floor
bedroom--
what good are the fire
fighters when
don't believe
your smoke?
as always this was
between us