the fire eater’s wifeKristy Bowen
Sometimes, even the blankets caught flame, the kitchen chairs. Ashes in her hair and the children safe in the tub. She gives up cigarettes, her Saturday night old-fashioned. Becomes sulky, sullen, sugared. Buries eggs in the backyard before they set to boiling. Knows a man can take to wanting like that, a thirst for kerosene, a lust for paraffin. His tongue blistering when he sleeps. Last night, an entire town gone up just like that, matches missing from every cupboard in three counties. Her yellow curtains singeing as she opened the window. Crawled inside his throat with her stiff drink, her ransom note.
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