on Pineda

In A Room of Unlit Candles

for Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Give me a church carved entirely of salt,
or an altar of bones, a chalice laced
with tiny skulls worn smooth from a child’s touch.
Give me a room of unlit candles
where the air fills and unfolds in each flame’s
ghost, the mind still lost on what burns.
In a dark corner, let me find you
out of breath.


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