by Rochelle Ratner
The most important thing, they told her after their house burnt down, was not only to have a fire extinguisher handy, but to have one you felt comfortable using. And that made sense to her. She went to the showroom, tested weight and width, bought two that seemed made for her short arms and thick fingers. And she felt safe. Not so safe she'd become agoraphobic, of course. She went out. She met men in bars. She brought men home with her. She opened a new pack of Salem. He asked her not to smoke. No, ordered her not to smoke, one cigarette after another like that, and in her own home. He grabbed the pack from her. She got a new pack. He got an extinguisher. The extinguisher wasn't right for his large fingers. It sprayed out too quickly. The next thing she knew it was like a bomb went off around her. Or inside her. She was covered in powder. She could barely see. She ordered him out of her apartment. He left, still screaming that cigarettes were killers. He didn't even bother to close the door behind him.
Rochelle Ratner's latest poetry books include Leads (Otoliths Press, 2007), Balancing Acts (Marsh Hawk Press, 2006), Beggars at the Wall (Ikon, 2006) and House and Home (Marsh Hawk Press, 2003). She is the author of fifteen previous poetry collections and two novels (Bobby’s Girl and The Lion’s Share) both published by Coffee House Press). More information and links to her writing on the Internet can be found on her homepage.
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