Recount: Sunday

The coldest room in the house

was on fire –

hollowed out of itself.

You were still sitting;

sitting still like a glacier

melting into me.

Trying to turn the fan

towards the smoke

and harrowing midnight.

The coldest room in the house

was a fire –

hallowed be thy flame.

I made no sounds of sleep

nor watched the fire crawl

across the ceiling, darkly.

The coldest room in the house

was afire –

unhallowed serpentflame specter.

We don’t know where we’ve been –

The knives: all alive:

you’re only just

awake.