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Dahling, We Can’t
Dahling, We Can’t Stephen L. Harrison
Dahling, we can’t— we simply cannot stay.
The trees might spontaneously inflagrate; the hedges catch a spark and turn this sun-baked paradise into an absolute inferno.
Think of the wine— our wealthy little cellar boiling in its bottles.
Think of the Ferraris, their scarlet pride reduced to molten sculpture.
And the Ayam Cemani hens, those black-feathered jewels— Dahling, it does not bear thinking about.
We must put the house up for sale. We must leave Mansionland.
We shall move to the ex-miners’ estate: barren, dependable concrete, windows reassuringly made of glass, and an outlook over Murburbia.
There, the only thing that flashes in the darkness is a knife— and at least the letterbox can be sealed against every little spark.
Please, Dahling, leave the sun-baked grass, the trees, the heatwave and all this unbearable wealth.
We shall be safer in an old miner’s little cottage.
Dahling, we must move.
We can’t.
Can not.
Darling, we can't— The trees might suddenly
the hedges could ignite and turn this sunny paradise
into a complete hell. Think about the wine— boiling in its bottles. Think about the Ferraris, melted into a sculpture.
And the Ayam Cemani hens, Darling, it's unbearable to think about.
We have to sell the house. We will move barren, reliable concrete,
windows safely made of glass, and a view over the suburbs. There, the only thing is a knife—
and at least the mailbox can be closed
against any little spark. Please, Darling, the trees, the heatwave and all this unbearable wealth. We will be safer
Darling, we have to move. We can't. Cannot.