Insulation

The storm took the lines down an hour ago.

I’m sitting in the kitchen with a lopsided pillar,

watching the flame eat a hole through the center

while the thunder rolls like furniture being moved upstairs.

I tipped the saucer and the hot wax spilled,

landing on my knuckle in a clear, heavy bead.

It turned white as it hit the skin, a sudden shell,

a numb little island that didn't even hurt.

I peeled it off in one jagged, translucent flake

and saw the ghost of my own fingerprint inside.

It felt like a temporary armor, a way to stay quiet

while the rest of the world is screaming in the wind.