Ladybird, Ladybird

Your house is on fire

and your children all gone

—Mother Goose  

We were alone 

the first time 

the house caught fire. 

I round the corner 

to flames rolling up the cabinets, 

across the ceiling—the kitchen 

a sheet of shimmering heat. 

Linda whisks by, 

scattering chairs, emerges with the birdcage. 

Sisters pour from every room

in the house, the driveway a spectacle: 

hoses, neighbours, fire trucks. 

Our parents pull in, 

trunk full of food, 

to a gaping roof and 

wallpaper sloughing away 

from the sheetrock.  

Maybe this is why I hear clanging 

instead of rhyme, 

why I worry for children gone. 

Fear scuttles the thrill of the bright beetle, 

its sturdy scurry across my nail, 

its tenacious cling 

to a blade of grass, 

the crack of its carapace, 

the cinnamon flash of its secret wings, 

the disappearing act—

fly away, fly away home. 

Even now, 

my sisters gone, 

my children grown, 

peril stings the corners of my eyes. 

I switch off the lights, twist the lock, 

mince over the slippery drive. 

The car startles at my key fob’s beep—

motion ripples behind the glass. 

Ladybirds cover every inch of the car: the dash, 

the windshield, the wheel. They ripple, 

a coat of red, across the leather seat. I hear 

the creaking of their little knees, 

the mechanics of their shells, 

the rapid beats of their wings. 

I press my hand against the seat, 

one crawls up my finger, 

then another.  

With both hands, I scoop a worldful, 

step back, 

toss them into the sky— 

they flicker around me like fire.