At 16, there is wax to burn.
Did you fly alight when they held you
And put flame in your belly like a lantern?
Would you balloon and rise into the deepening sky,
Your chest kindling as it picks up wind,
Saying to us, down here: I am no longer of you,
But I will guide you. Until the currents
Take you far,
Either blink away into the cindery night or
Are consumed and fall beyond the buildings?
If your windpipe is a wick, your eyes
light from the inside, this body a bag
Holding every brick since they were first scored out of the earth.
Your skin is soft as paper, as glue.
From many hands, from nighttime, from shedding
Shirts, from sands that you will never see
Again, sublime from solid into ash, you climb, translucent, boy.