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.
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