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.