Scab I

I stole them all from stranger’s homes, first John and Anthony,

and, finally, the candle carved with your name. All of them I lit,

fanned with breath, and then left, dropping the match onto the welcome

mat on the way out. I watched from the safety of a window as the wax

dripped down onto the table, mingled with the wood and the grime of

pancake syrup past, hardened together into ugly lumps, all the while

encapsulating the candles in place.

Then, when they, John and Anothony, were nothing but puddles and lumps,

the flame kissed the table and the room began to glow as I had never seen.

There was nothing but burning, and more burning, and as it all burned I

warmed my fingers on the scorched glass pane. The walls sweated, as you had,

and turned yellow and then red and then were gone, as I am, and then I saw,

for the first time, silence.