Crucible
The candle didn’t ignite the nightstand.
There was no housefire.
It’s not like burning.
Grandma never picked the wrong mushrooms
or mistook hemlock for dandelion.
It’s not like poison.
No one was smote by the lord
or turned to a pillar of salt.
It’s not like lightning.
The whiskey wasn’t useless—
the window wouldn’t close.
It’s not like running out of air.
The drugs weren’t left unlocked.
The rifle wasn’t loaded.
It’s not like a suicide.
Beth Suter is an MFA student at U.C. Davis and author of the chapbook Snake and Eggs (FLP). A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, her poems have appeared in Colorado Review, New American Writing, Barrow Street, DMQ Review, Birmingham Poetry Review, and others. Learn more at: bethsuter.com.
