When the candle wax over this morning cools,
I hope it fastens all as it is, now.
I hope it stiffens over still countertops
and stool legs, over dinner dishes
stacked like a house of cards—
the towel underneath already dry
from soapy droplets. It caught and drank
while we slept in separate beds,
turned in our sweat
a floor above.
I hope wax crusts over the dimness,
settles the quiet grey
dusting our floor tiles,
a peaceful coating,
like powdered sugar
sprinkled on Ima’s french toast—
a sweet, mindful spread.
Can you imagine a morning
embalmed in this mold,
hushed like a wasp in amber,
its stinger idle, trapped by film?
Now, sun thaws our window panes,
rumbles of a lawnmower
shake the cast of our light sleep.
Our vents can try to maintain this stillness
only if doors remain closed.