The Story at Her Feet

It is this place inside. The one with the candles. That pins the prayer card to the wall. Crust of blood by crust of blood I am glued together. The milk in the grocery bag bumps my leg. I sit and watch her. The flame is not safe by her feet. It may catch the flowers alight. But it is not a place where you can change the order of divinity. You must sit if not transfixed inert. You must not question the order of silence. There is so much that I don’t remember and too much that I do. Missing chunks of time that I no longer own but which possess me. Walking from the garage to the house with a little radio. Rubbing my knuckles on the wall. Wishing I could live in the tyres and the smell of petrol. There has always been fire in this story. Crust of blood by crust of blood I am glued together. The flesh of my time sits in a file of letters waiting to be turned to ash. Ash that I will mix with stoup water and pass over my head. A new powder to drip through my hair fall on the page mix with ink become the story at her feet.