Votives:
Those Candle Stubs
Burned for Our 1st Anniversary
Now they're fat wax stubs three fingers high; an unsustainable
breath smothering the thin wicks weak as children’s snowmen
sticks in winter, little limbs splintered from the sugar
maples, fingers broke off in the last wind's-up aha.
maples, fingers broke off in the last wind's-up aha.
Or now, the gone fallow fatty suet-to-tallow-to-suet unsalvageable,
especially to finches and jays, crumbs stuck in the bent
wire trap outside the door, made of the rent come-to-shore
bare-from-the-storm lobster pot, combed, now cut,
now bent to this new will, and hanged. I’ve given up, unsated,
trying to dig it out of itself, the wick, that is, fixed
between anniversary revivals to light it, forgetting the
last teeny bead of flame sucking for substance, suffocated
now on oxygen. The black tips keep lapsing, a miosis-of-the
the light, like owls in the bright day, how I've seen the way
they tuck their faces away in the trees
beneath the paused, speed-preened wings Not unknowingly,
now I go out holding both votives that have come under
the fire of their own temper (I’ve held them long enough
I suppose) exposing, unlit of course, their only scopes of knowing
their way home when day turns her shoulder over, back-to,
then shudders when the wind picks up, and blames, understandably,
then shudders when the wind picks up, and blames, understandably,
the extinguishing (even if it happened twenty
or so years ago) on the wind itself, not the maker, not
the giver. I’ve kept them though, like sinner's petitions given
the giver. I’ve kept them though, like sinner's petitions given
now to minor saints, those griefs at a grave and flame's somehow, unbelievably,
deliberating its way from match to fuel. Enough wax.
Enough wick. And on a rock as small as this, they are two eyes.
They are the size of liberty coins. Again, I try lighting them.
Enough wick. And on a rock as small as this, they are two eyes.
They are the size of liberty coins. Again, I try lighting them.
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