Fire Hazard

I left the jar burning on the shelf

while I went out to lose myself—

or just to find my phone, I think.

The whole room is on the brink

of smelling like scorched glue and thin despair.

I can feel the heat in the kitchen air.

The paperback is singed along the spine.

It’s a miracle the whole place is still mine.

A moth is face-down in the vanilla pool,

looking like a charred and tiny fool.

Its wings are curled and stiff and black.

I don't know how to take the fire back.