Something sighed. Black wax in a yellow bowl smoked. A candle stroked the cheek of air, saying “There.” Then “There.” I too spoke words which shaped my mouth to sharpness or to wound. What enchanted us broke—oh, how the end of every rope is fray. So I pulled our braid to strands, to strand us, with a sound. Later, it was steel wool on clay. I washed away cool wax— watched the water black, then pale. Something sighed. “Farewell.”
STEPHANIE YUE DUHEM is writing out of Austin, TX. She can be found online at www.sydpoetry.com or @nameandnoun.