forty five minutes and four months (gift)

the man is unremarkable, except for his
left hand, in the path of a flame, kept
alive by wax around a wick, an old
technology, but effective, his lips
part and his tongue and teeth say
'feel this, this is a gift.' My eyes
impassive, this is an impasse, I
am no empath, still an impulse exists,
this is no exit, this is a gift, a gift
of pain and a tube of wax and a wick.