By Amanda Sun
Art by Kaitlyn Anderson
How to unburn a candle.
When a candle drips,
down,
on,
my table I try to give the wax back to itself.
Butter yellow puddles solidify fingerprints onto my fingertips as they attempt
slip melted wax back onto a wick.
It’s a bit too late as
The wick is no longer a wick it’s
CO2 H2O heat and light and I try to think of lightness in the air I breathe
The light needs darkness in order to be called light
and where is a light of friendship when you run out of wick?
Carbon sequestration is a hot topic:
Basalt rocks that grind into powder drink CO2 from the sky.
I ask basalt: can you return the water, heat, and light to a candle?
The energy in light photons running into one another
can these be corralled into a braid of white cotton dipped in yellow beeswax?
I don’t need a scientist to tell me no, not yet.
She won’t return to consciousness yet.
What do I do with this gap between now and discovery?
I can never return my candle to itself.
When down to a waxy stub, the sides rise up
beeswax unburnt but one side is more than it’s uneven and I did not know a candle would leave a gap
I did not know a burning candle could leave a gap inside of me.
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