|When she was eight,
her ritual was fire.
Solemn and still, in silence but for the scratch
Against emery of a stolen match,
She would light three candles, watch the flames
To pointed nothing, then take folded spills
And watch them burn to fragile curling black.
She'd whisper words like "car-crash",
Unsmilingly, and will the world's worst ills
Upon her new step-dad, the King of Lies.
The flame burns tiny in her focused eyes.