The quiet was what scared me,
not the sound of a crackling fire,
a flame taking in everything,
burning through pictures through metal,
through stone. Fire bubbled, fizzled,
fried all memory and material.
Though at first indecipherable,
I saw a picture, blazing in the
fire, cheeks, and eyes, and
skin, a baby in the haze.
I screamed out, shouted her name,
she stared back in silence
afraid of the shame.
The child was familiar, and as soon
as I knew, I felt the feeling of
fire engulfing me too.
The photograph, that baby was me,
being burned up, consumed so quickly
till nothing was left but a heap of regret.