August Evening

by Christine Bayeux

And then there were none...
...there were, but not here rather
there.
Here there were only the whirr of
a fan, rotating about never dipping outside
its plane and a gentle whistling
breath flowing into her nose down
twisting through caverns of her body
Hers all of it
no longer noise, but
sounds where
she knows are beating
breathing
bellowing
all for her
Hers the dancing flame sits tabletop
and watches her fingers weave threads
a life you ask
No. Her life
bathed in a rose light warmed by a
bulb she turned and molded
it singed her fingers raw
and she returned there and brought
here above its golden threads weaved and
wandered though silent a whispering
flame echoed
and the petals were there watching
and spreading about before
falling
one by one to the floor.