TAPERS

by Matt Hinton

 

 

In a room colored by candles
by the dozens of hundreds
I had thought that the snuffing of one
would not affect the light

Or that I would only notice the difference
if it were a church candle,
thick,
sturdy,
a floor-to-waist pillar,
the wick drowned in wax

Or in the odorless paraffin bones
of a candelabra,
those branches of fluttering penumbras,
fragile tendrils of ivory trickling to tabletops,
at once growing and vanishing
until the collection goes dark

But no

I notice the absence of every votive,
their silent burning in the corners now ended,
and how the shadows grow
with every flame pinched out
by thin fingers

I notice the absence of light
and the ribbon of smoke that
unfurls itself up
into new darkness

The smell of singed cotton
rising off the faint ember
—a little amber dot—
the memory of a flame

Worst of all
I notice
each birthday candle
and the quickness
with which
they extinguish
themselves

As if to remind us
that all light
is fleeting

 

    

Return to Tribute table of contents.

Return to issue 11 table of contents.