What I Wanted to Tell You Last Night, But Couldn't, Because the Chicken Coop was on Fire

What I wanted to tell you last night, but couldn’t, because the chicken coop was on fire
when we drove up the drive way and we were swept from our talk and into action

and my father ran back from feeding the cows, which he does very late at night, to keep them from waking him early in the morning, when they are hungry again, carrying two empty buckets that he forgot, in his haste, to set down

and my mother awoke and began to panic, because she smelled smoke, and came outdoors wearing long underwear over her nightgown, to stay warm, and, even though we resisted, called the fire department

and the neighbors stopped by, because they could see the flames from their car on the highway and thought that, whether festivity or emergency, they wanted to be a part

and then my brother came home with a new girlfriend who he didn’t exactly mean for us to meet, because they were just on their way to a party and he was worried that maybe we’d embarrass him,

but since we were all there we had introductions and, for the first time, my mother didn’t call you my “good special friend”

while the flames climbed higher, we stood by the pine trees, and we joked about getting out marshmallows, but mostly tried very hard not to think about the chickens

then the fire truck came with all the volunteers who were so excited to respond to a fire that they didn’t start themselves, just to pass the time,

that they drove the truck into the yard and it became lodged between two trees and though we all tried to push it to freedom, we couldn’t, so my father had to get his chainsaw

which was alright, since one tree was beginning to rot, and he had been meaning to cut it down anyway

and the saw blades screamed and the branches shattered and the fire truck was released, to unfurl its hoses across the yard

and the pressure from the water on the fire sent glowing embers high into the night, where they glittered against the sky for a moment before riding the late night air slowly down to the grass

we worried that they might start more fires, so we ran around the yard and stomped them, emphatically, into the ground

you said it was probably unnecessary, but at least it was something to do

and we all carried on, till all that remained of the hissing and the steam, the roaring water and the flames, and the chickens and the chicken coop

was a smoldering pile of wet boards

and then you had to go home, because of tomorrow, and the late hour, and the importance of sleep

What I wanted to tell you, but couldn’t, because the chicken coop was on fire, was that no matter the emergency, occasion, or night I plan to love you forever, with all of my might