A Childhood Fire
The camera, dented and bruised.
Lost with pained memories of burning brick —
a vessel shipwrecked at sea,
sunk to the bottom of the ocean.
The remnants of an ash-covered
polaroid. My childhood home,
smoke-sooted brick, engulfed by flames.
That’s my home.
The camera emerges from a shadow,
slowly peeking out
behind a screeching, cracked door.
And all I can hear,
ringing in my ears,
is the faint sound of the camera —
clicking, clicking, clicking.
My eyes grow numb, pupils
widen from the blinding light,
distorting my vision.
There is no pain.
I let go of the pain
the image of the burning brick brings,
and a part of my soul melts
away from the past. Still
and lifesless,
the camera limp in the corner,
where all that is left
is a blurred shadow —
concealing all the memories
from my wounded past.
