Poem by Ruby Lawrence

I have remembered myself with wax,
using heated bodies of remoulded time,
sight becoming hostile to sun,
comfort zones shrinking into darkness.
Yeah, it’s pretty quiet.
A family can explode like a jar of apples,
leaving behind a very small final arrangement.

Candlelight bruises retinas so I close my eyes,
multiplying the scorchy residue
into parents, cousins, siblings,
and a score of butter-faced children.

Obviously, this is just an act of imagination.
Down here I have nothing to spark.
Everything—the lighting of new candles, and really, everything—
relies on remnant flame.