She stuffed

          the insurance check in the front pocket of her tight jeans,
took the car that didn't melt, that was hot, but started.
She scooped up her daughter and her daughter's bunny --
charred on one side, black and pink.

The house is the burning end of a cigarette. She floors
the ignition, the night smells of fire. She does not believe
she will ever lose that smell, it has nested in her hair,
her nostrils, her sinus, even her daughter smells like fire.

The insurance check is a fire in her pocket.
She has never seen that much money in a check
made out to her. He is coming around tomorrow to reclaim
the check. She will shower after she puts one hundred miles

between her and her destruction. She will stop driving
when she quits smoking, dye her hair and her daughter's
pink like the bunny.