Andy Fenwick
New York, New York
In May of 1934, my grandfather and his foot-taller brother
aim their novel fire extinguisher at the camera. This is their offer
to fight fires for buyers of fifty or more.
Launched to free them from indenture
to a life under liars, this business venture flirts with a trickle of orders
then sputters and tanks forever. Resurrected, a photo in my fingers, my grandfather’s face fakes humor to blanket his burning desire
to transcend financial disaster. I don’t inherit the extinguisher.
I lack that miracle repressor
of genetic curses fated to prosper
on Ponzi schemes, or dead-end labor endured by those born after
my grandfather dies on a stretcher, too diabetic to manage a screen door,
or after his brother’s last stroke, in my father’s arms, on a Newark factory floor.
DNA works like arson, sparked long before cremations fight fire with fire.