Flame

Flame, you efface the sacrifice
of flora and fauna
laid upon winter’s table—
the fever of the clean hand
that touches what it cannot save.

Flame,
so the white clouds
cannot wipe away the tears
of our silent cries,
you rise through the air
like a memory refusing to disappear.

I lean towards you.
I genuflect before the grief,
the solitude gathered in your smoke.
There, in your trembling light,
I search for the face
I have forgotten how to forget.

I lean towards you again.
I take your face into my hands.
How beautiful it is
to lie upon our deserted bed,
the bed that was ours
years ago—
when the walls still knew our voices
and the night had not yet learned
to sleep alone.

Flame,
from the other quarter of the room,
our house looks like
the prow of a passing boat—
already leaving,
already carrying away
everything we were.

And the broken glass of the mirror
lies scattered in the abandoned kitchen,
each shard holding a fragment of fire,
each fragment
like a piece of burnt toast
left behind
by a morning
no one came back to finish.