She's never liked fire.
Her instinct is against man. Her husband
Is all right, although he's just an elaborate beast.
As she pours dishwater over the grill
Her son has lit, she answers their growls
Offering to cook the meat inside.
She's never felt any guilt.

Her husband sees visions. He used to tell her
But now he is too afraid.
They move inside with the food.

She doesn't follow them in. She stares at the sun
With her hand guarding her eyes. She sees night,
Herself returning looking slightly beaten,
Finding herself already asleep, burning,
Not remembering if it was raining, thinking it was sweat.