Night in the Burned House

In my old bedroom, in this house
now my Aunt A’s, walls mottle grey

into black, char hiding that this room
was ever painted purple in a hope

that someone would guess, would know.
Burning night, my hidden journals

blown across the field—and my aunt,
gathering boughs for wreaths, found

I love him. I have not seen her eyes
since. She who sang hymns with me

as we hung the wash, who said
you can tell the Lord anything, and me too—

David and Jonathan a holy story,
but my love a wickedness. All night,

I press hands to these walls, whisper
what I cannot say without a flower

opening, a disappearing boy, a house
burning. Let the morning never come.