I'm calling poems I publish on here "flash poetry," for the double meaning that they may be briefly illuminating, and indecent exposure.
Now, what I have here is a candle.
Some of you may not be familiar
with candles; let me explain:
They are made of wax, they are wick within
and burned, they are light and flame.
What I have here is a candle; Now remember
that the candle cannot see herself.
She sees only the shadows she casts, her
distorted form, she cannot tell that
she sees because of her own light.
She doesn’t know: she is the reason
we see as we have never seen before.
Now remember, what I have here is a candle.
To the candle, the world is melting;
Or rather, she is melting, while the world grows up
around her. How true, she thinks,
that I will only shrink forever. The candle
does not understand, she has
melted before, and will melt again.
Here is a candle.
She wants to hide her twisted body under a
bushel, a cover. She thinks she is dark, even while
she gives light to all of us here,
in this room of the house.