Of course, my father burned our trash. We weren’t allowed too near the rusted-out can, flames licking the lip, smoke a poison in the air, a milky-green ghost haunting sky. Then he drank a beer, stayed nearby. Only once, that I remember, did the flames creep up the acres like a possum to the porch, with all those pointed teeth. My sisters and I lugged buckets til we were sent to our rooms. Neighbors dragged hoses as far as they could in self-interest, in charity. We were told burning is so good for a yard! It’ll come back better than before. When the ground cooled, we walked the scorched grass, crickets jumping out before us like ideas that couldn’t quite catch.