Blue Candle
by Lexi Pelle
Nights, I hear my sins
scrabbling in the ceiling:
I made Luke apologize
for loving me too much after
grinding my mini-skirted ass
against his friend in the dark
school gym; let Kyle toss
Kate’s favorite skateboard
off a roof; the time I forgot
Mom’s birthday because Liz
was in town and we were old
enough to drink—I think
I invited Mom to dinner hoping
she’d pay. How many times
did the waiter come out of
the kitchen not carrying
a small white cake
on a syrup-drizzled plate,
hand cupped around a single
blue candle? The restaurant loud
with the absence of applause.
For an hour the next day
I listened to her tell me it was ok
while I clomped
around in her forgiveness
the way I did as a kid
in her famous red heels.
So consumed by grace
I hardly noticed how badly they fit.