House Fires
Sherman Alexie

The night my father broke
the furniture and used the pieces
to build a fire, my mother tore me
from my bed at 3 a.m. Eyes and mouth
wide with whiskey, she told me
we were leaving that place
and would never come back.
We drove for hours, under the gates
of this reservation, as she recanted
years of life with my father,
the man who pulled our house from its foundations
and sent us all tumbling down
to a café in Colville. We took penance
in the breakfast special, she told me
forgave all our sins. We drove back
to my father, gathering ash
in his hands, planning to bury it all
in the graves we had chosen for each other.

From The Business of Fancydancing ( Hanging Loose Press, 1992)