Wax Museum

I am made of wax and my mother is

candlelight.

less a nativity than an abandoned menagerie, 

left behind with old furniture and dishes and 

an unfinished errand list. 

‘I want to learn to love ugly things,’ I self-affirm. 

so I can love myself in place of her.

how did she do it? I will never understand

how a mother loves but

I almost don’t want to. a child’s heart 

is ((heavy)) enough to carry. maybe 

if I strike another match against myself,

this time it will light.

-wax museum