Page 140 of Grim
Rue’sLament
What begins in the light ends in the dark.
Heated wax melting into memory.
Liquid pools formed from that initial spark.
Every wick burns out eventually.
Fear not the candle’s smoky finale
Celebrate instead the way it burned bright
Tendrils of grey-black smoke, the last sally
Of a flame that flickered with all its might.
The chandler crafted with wick and tallow
Each piece meant to serve an earthly purpose
So, burn your candles, lest they lie fallow
Trophies to obsolescence for the corpus.
Heat, light, and power dancing off the tip.
Snuffed out, brief candle. Sweet life, what a trip.
The silence punctuates the poem’s final couplet fittingly. I wipe a stray tear from my eye. I hear a soft sniffle on the other end of the line.
“Beautiful, baby. Simply beautiful. What a haunting metaphor. I want to paint your words.”
“Thank you, Mom. There are loads more in all the notebooks in my room. You’re welcome to them anytime.”
“Don’t talk that way, Rue. They’re your creations. Yours to share.”
“Just know they’re there, Mom. Yeah?”
I blink hard and press my palm to my chest. Everything is starting to ache.
“I think I’m gonna come visit this weekend,” she says suddenly, the words tripping over each other.
I close my eyes. My throat tightens. “What?”
“Yeah. I’m tired of this long-distance shit. I want to sit on your porch and make fun of your neighbors.”
“By neighbors, you can only mean the family cemetery—full of dead people.”
“Fine, then we’ll drink wine and mock the squirrels. I don’t care. I’ll bring that stupid rug you keep trying to steal.”
“I bought you that rug.”
“Details.”
I press the heel of my hand into my sternum. “That sounds nice.”
“Then it’s settled. This weekend. You can read me more of your work. We can make art. Together.”
