Conspiracy Theory

I’ve forgotten the ending.
It’s one of the things they took
in those long days of dull

yellow light – a way to pinch out
the flame and watch the smoke rise
against the window at night.

I woke up with scissors
wrapped in my hand, to snip
the wick I guess, watch it fall

like leaves or paper, watch the carpet
catch. It’s one of the things
they want – a conflagration,

fire from fire until nothing is left,
not even the story of how

the world was killed, only more fuel,
only more fuel. I’ve forgotten

an ending. All I have is beginnings
and middles as if that is hope

and happiness, as if nothing
will end again, as if I needn’t worry.

But I worry I’ve lost
how to close things and so I
won’t remember how to die.