Kindling

The radiator is a cold, iron rib

ticking in the corner.

I turned the knob on the stove

and watched the blue ring

crown the burner in the dark.

The bank statements are heavy.

Six months of overdrafts

and interest I can't name.

I took them to the alley

and fed them to the bin.

The paper doesn't just disappear.

The edges curl into a black lace,

a delicate, charred embroidery

that shivers once

before it turns to salt.