The quiet was what scared me,
not the sound of crackling fire,
a flame taking in everything,
bubbling, fizzling, frying
all memory and material.
Though at first indecipherable,
I saw a picture in the flames,
cheeks, eyes, and skin,
a baby in the haze.
I screamed out, shouting 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 and consumed so quickly
till nothing was left but a heap of regret.