By morning, only grey shapes remain. But if you press your palm against the clay rim, you feel it— not heat. Memory of heat.
Tonight I understand: the second hearth is not for the living. It is for the almost-gone. For the grandmother whose hands forgot how to knead. For the letter I wrote and never mailed. For the god who became a piece of furniture. angithee 2
I feed it one regret at a time. They catch slowly, like wet wood. But they catch. By morning, only grey shapes remain
I build the second hearth on the bones of the first. Not for grand warmth. For the thali of embers that outlasts midnight. For the story that refused to finish burning. Tonight I understand: the second hearth is not
And that, I think, is the only covenant worth keeping twice. — For the embers that refuse to be a footnote.
(After the fire has died once. The second lighting.)