did I leave a candle
lit, she asks, as i drive
away, already ten miles from her home.
I don't know, I tell her,
you had about twenty of them
going, two or three
in every room.
we have to go back, she says.
the cats might knock one over
and burn the house down.
i turn around and say nothing.
I get very quiet.
i want to say something about
the century we are in.
electricity, lights with switches,
but i don't.
i don't say anything about
the butter churn in her
kitchen either, or the well
in her yard, or the goats
and chicken. it's best not to talk
about these things,
or this sweater she knitted,
how it itches and gives
me a rash.
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