One Candle Now, Then Seven More

Brad Aaron Modlin

I grew up in a family that did not tell
the story. I am listening to it now:

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Even the morning you see a robin
flattened on the street, you hear

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another in a tree, the notes
they’ve taught each other, bird

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before bird before we were born.
And elsewhere, the rusty bicycle

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carries the doctor all the way
across an island. He arrives in time.

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Somewhere his sister adds water
to the soup until payday. And

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over the final hill in a Southwestern
desert, a gas station appears. No,

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the grief has not forgotten my name,
but this morning I tied

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my shoelaces. Outside I can force
a wave at every face who might

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need it. We might
spin till we collapse, but we still

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have a hub: Even at dusk,
the sun isn’t going anywhere.

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We have lamps. The story insists
it just looks like there’s only

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enough oil to last one night.

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