by Erin Jamieson

l our house filled w/ steam
& windows fogged, family photos
peeled like sunburnt skin

the smell was always the same:
car exhaust mixed w/
rancid peanut oil &&&suffocating

even upstairs in my room,
as I listened to my father
call another lover, even as
my mother drew her third bath
of the afternoon

once, I tried save us
I was only eight, but the fire
from the month before,
where I lost my stuffed bear
had made an impression

I felt so proud
turning off the heat
preventing another tragedy

but on my way down
I passed my father,
laughing at a joke
& my mother, dripping
from her shower

& in the kitchen they knew
& I knew
that I had saved no one

for the rest of my childhood
I let my mother forget
& our house self destruction

Erin Jamieson

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Erin Jamieson holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. Her writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, and her fiction has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She teaches at the Ohio State University.

_{^{Artist: Shelton Walsmith}}