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THE SPARK
by Jennifer Moxley
I wrote this happiness myself.
I chose this man, this house, this cat.
I put my shadow twin
upstairs in the leaf of a
mediocre book I thought
never to open again. I felt grateful.
Upstairs there were many
photo albums with gluey pages
and yellowed Mylar in between
which Poloroids had come
unstuck. In them happy children
pitch tents, watch TV,
open presents, and smile before
homemade birthday cakes.
Had I known them? I knew
that I was not missing them
or missing out and thus my heart
was full. But, I thought,
should phosphorus mix
with potassium chlorate
and hit the gaseous air,
this man, this house, this cat,
be lost, what then? They’d join
the many other dead
whose memories I tend.
I cannot miss. My heart is full
and grateful. But, I thought,
while I still could, should
neuro plaques and tangles
knot my mind my heart would
empty and all of this would
cease to be. I could not miss it,
nor even this, my spark.
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