The flames of the Swedish candle chimes, burn
hot blue at the bottom
yellow top and outer edges
That year I stayed with my grandparents
I lit fires, not to burn anything
down, fires lit to watch them burn,
not big fires, a single sheet of paper - even
so they sometimes got out of control,
hurriedly stomped into thin black flakes
and dust.
one flame forms a tear drop
Sent to them for my badness,
nobody hit me then for
washing dishes too slow
or taking $200 for passing Go
instead of waiting for my stepfather, the banker.
the wick, black with red at the tip
smell of burning
like campfires, or charcoal briquettes
My grandmother found
the remains of the fires
in the utility room where I slept -
behind the gas water heater,
“Thank the Lord, it didn’t leak.”
then, angels whirling round
metal, dull gold, soot smudged
flat golden trumpets, triumphant
ting, ting, ting, faster and faster
No longer always afraid
my mind works again
straight ‘A’s and the nun at St. Agnes
calls me her little theologian.
barely a pause, ting
All is regular. Angels keep going round, flying sideways. Rods keep hitting
round chimes and make the tinkling sounds.
Four flames. Three angels.
But I can’t stop myself,
grab whatever glitters.
All the presents I gave that year, shoplifted from
Kress’s, Woolworth’s, the A&P,
like I didn’t have nerves,
just picked something up and
walked out. Unnoted.
I never considered the gas
or anything else unseen.
When the fan moves
the cap moves. When
the cap moves the
triangle moves. When
the triangle moves,
the angels move, and their rods
strike the metal chimes.
Everything is connected, but how?
In chemistry class we observed
a candle. We were just
to observe,
no interpretations, and that
was the best thing about chemistry class.
To say that the candle flames heat the air, expanding
the molecules and making
a wind as the air gets lighter and moves
up, causing the round fan to revolve and the
angels to go round is not an observation.
That is an interpretation.
To say the candles are pink, deep
pink near their center, is
an observation.
Anything seen.
One flame burns taller, then shrinks back.
If I touch the top of the flame, it is hot, but it doesn’t burn me,
It changes the direction of the flame.
The measure influences the measurement. The observation changes the observer.
The little angels are going round fast.
If you look at them long enough
they start to look like they are
going to the right
instead of the left,
facing the right
instead of the left.
Candles burn down. Flames go out.
The young cop laughed and talked with me in the
squad car. Like a regular kid was how
he saw me. I was shaken,
hadn’t known how I saw myself.
The next to last flame has gone out and
a thin stream of smoke rises up. It swirls
when it hits the metal fan at the top.
It doesn’t make the angels go round,
but it is more beautiful than
the angels going round.
The last flame goes on long after the others are done.
When it finally burns out, I still believe in it.
prev poem / poems contents / next poem
author poems stories art gallery the things that always were Erin's page favorite links
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|