The Culprit
Published in
Apr 4, 2022
The chicory steam from the coffee
maker suffuses Sunday afternoon
loneliness with a ghost of this morning,
bitter vapor lapping the kitchen sink
windowsill. If you had just returned
from a weekend away, what would you trace
after shutting your eyes and muffling your ears?
After a deep breath? The culprit: a whiff of dead
sympathy flowers (the cat’s ashes asleep under
the glow of a taciturn moon, in the guest room)
with a hint of an early-bird supper from the hours
cooled oven. And then, there it is, the recognition:
memory of match struck after match
struck strikes the scream: “Fire!”
© Michael Volpi 2022
