On the Corner of Clemency and Culpability

I wasn’t looking for freedom
when I slammed the heavy iron gate
leaving the house on Sycamore Street
nothing but flames, ash, and smoke

I wasn't looking for freedom
but there it was
beckoning with both hands where Coal Avenue met Sycamore
extending both arms
to embrace the Arsonist of Memory

My hands,
my hands, usually grasping guilt
only longed to feel heat;
they weren’t prepared for the third degree burns of blame

Followed by a blessed numbness,
the fortuitous fiction
we call forgiveness