Backyard Disposal

The match-head flares and the sulfur

stings the back of my throat.

I drop it onto the 1099s, the receipts

for things I don't own anymore,

and that one picture of you at the lake.

The heat makes the air wobble.

The edges of the paper don't just burn;

they curl back like a dry lip,

turning into black, fragile tubes

before the wind turns them into gray flakes.

I poke the pile with a stick

to make sure the faces are gone for good.