The Weight of Unlit Things

I was looking for a screwdriver

in the drawer where everything goes to wait.

I found a birthday candle instead,

bent in the middle like a tired knee.

There’s a saucer in the sink with a white drip

clinging to the porcelain like a secret.

I use my thumbnail to scrape it loose,

a cold, hard flake of what used to be a flame.

My fingers feel oily now, coated in that film

that doesn't quite wash away with water.

It’s the ghost of a power outage three years ago,

when we sat in the kitchen and didn't know

how much of our light was just a temporary gift.