I’m lowering the lid down,
watching the flame die.
1.99 for a candle and
I wrap my hand around it easily
I wrap my eyes around it easily
my nose is harder to wrap around it.
not because of the cartilage
or because I’m lacking in surface area, no
it’s a cinnamon vanilla scent
the nose the head the emotions cannot quite
wrap themselves around it because it pulls
and pushes back to Dad tapping out the cinnamon-
sugar to every corner of the toast.
“It’s the only way to eat it, son.” he said
“you have to get even flavor in every bite.”
vanilla in small teaspoons, baked into an age old
recipe that hasn’t ever really been written.
Mom’s hands, creased with knowledge and kitchen cuts,
pour just enough which is a little more than you might think.
Brown carpet frayed with age, hit too many times with a broom
running the edge of the kitchen floor
things replaced, pulled away, recoated with freshness
I’m just lowering the lid down
just before it dies I pick it back up,
watching the glow of the brighter part of a flame
come back to me,
amiss in the well of my lungs,
wondering how oxygen can
for some reason unknown,
Oxygen wants so badly to give.