Combustion

The driveway was a slab of blue ice

when I saw the orange pulse through the pane.

I’d left the wick tall, a small, hot vice

chewing the wax like a slow, steady drain.

The house had been empty for an hour.

The curtains were holding their breath in the dark.

I ran for the door, feeling the sour

taste of the wood turning into a spark.

On the ceiling, a smudge like a thumb

pressed in soot where the heat had been rising.

The room was still standing, heavy and dumb,

the cost of my forgetting, beyond any resizing.