There is something spectral about sitting
cross-legged on the carpet staring into
the center of a flame. Washed with darkness
of a blown transformer, candlelight licks
at unblinking routers, cable boxes.
In thick silence, I whisper to St. Cyprian
as my fingers slip through heat the way my mother
showed me at the dinner table.
Will you light the wick of my fingertip or ends
of my hair? Will you set me aflame, my
dear Cyprian, so I might slip under
the door and into the street lights, burning?Caroline Barr is a recent graduate of Auburn University’s undergraduate Creative Writing program. She currently serves as an editorial intern with BOA Editions, Ltd., as well as an assistant editor for Southern Humanities Review.