After the Fire

After the Fire

“Take my hand.”

I give you a mug 
of  decaf,
steam rising from the rim.

The  creamer sits 
on the counter,
a pool of vanilla 
pooling at its base.

You put the coffee down, 
on the half burnt picture 
of your father.

The heat rises. 
Your fingers pull back.

The sun flames  through
the lone  window,
my hand disappearing 
in its glare.

The air  hums.
The walls hold the heat.

I shift 
in the warmth 
that remains.