The Accident Was One of Many. Poem by kristina marie darling

I wanted to record for him the movement of a body in sleep, because I knew it had something to do with the fire:

Darling

At the time, I didn't remember the word for threat, let alone desire, collision, or violence. I barely understood the rules to the game he called Memory or dream? Or why he would trace the edge of the doorframe with the tip of his index finger. This, this was only way to strike the match, he insisted.

And when it was my turn: a knife, a burned paper, a book sent by post. Even now, I spend hours explaining how some of the pages have been lost when none of them were ever there at all.