Last Night I Dreamed of Fire

I dreamed last night of fire, and the love I have for my cousin, the desire to protect her from the man that is her husband. We knelt in the grocery store after closing and wept for the children that will know only him as their father. And in living rooms with strangers, I was welcomed for my charm, taken in as one of them until dinner. And in my childhood home a walk-in closet, a window that was never there, a broken pane of leaded glass. In the corner of the sill, a sputtering flame, spontaneous ignition, a century of tar and silt. I snuff it with wet fingers yet it persists, and grows, and wriggles to live. It beckons to consume the window that doesn’t exist, and the memory of the home where once I lived. In a moment, it will be beyond my ability to extinguish it. There is no time to run to the sink. Is there a drink, or any bottle in the bedroom? It never occurs to me to urinate upon it...