|
|
a tattered matchbook with a phone number I never called
scrawled to the inside cover as an inscription to everything
I never wanted. A half-empty can of butane with a missing
cap alongside a dollar’s worth of pennies that weight a scrap
torn from a newspaper tragedy: four killed, faulty smoke
detectors to blame.
|
|
|
a charred picture, curled in upon itself and kept as a reminder
of what I could become; a blackened nest as an omen of
losing all I’ve ever known and an ointment tube, squeezed
in the middle as a talisman against blistering tempers.
|
|
|
an empty Zippo with a scarred case, dull and pointless; a coiled
stove element with an ashen haze that could testify that water
doesn’t douse all flames; and an oily fuse, plucked from the top
of my head to serve as a yardstick of minutes, seconds, then
nothing.
|
|
|
a fine layer of charcoal dust and half of a briquette from last
summer’s backyard barbecue when the wind kicked up to spray
red embers into the air like a meteor shower, streaking in bright
sparks and fluttering to shrieks and stop-drop-rolls along dry grass
until the itching ceased and the bubbles formed in small foamy
patches along arms and strapless backs and sun-red cheeks.
|
