ORION’S BOW

If my life were a home,
I’d never bother with furniture.
Let spilled tea stain the hardwood,
And roaches wash the dishes.

For this house is doomed to burn.

So I’ve carefully selected the essentials:
a bed, a wooden desk, a lamp.
Thin paper. And one pencil.

Because my only hope,
is when fire dances on ink and paper,
the ashes will drift upwards,
float away, up in the sky,
and someone may mistake it for a constellation.

Maybe it’ll be beautiful enough to hold them in place,
looking up at the ashes in the firmament.
Awe may engulf their soul,
as tears of stendhal spill from the seams.

And maybe they’ll tell a friend.
Take a photo.
Write a poem.

And in someone else,
I may escape the fire.