THE TWENTY SECOND YEAR

AT THE END OF THE TWENTY FIRST YEAR

I was given something in the dark.

          To name it loss would not be accurate.

Like a good girl, I fed it slowly to a candle

          And watched each little flame eat at the flesh

Of it, blackening it inch by frightening inch.

           This was only the first of many destructions.

The whole room reeked of burnt hair.

           The thing I surrendered might have screamed

Or said a name—mine?—or a prayer

           Or a curse in a language I never bothered to learn.

It might have died for no real reason.

           It might have died so I could live.