Memory is triangular
like frames that melt
in flames we burn
to fight a cold cold winter.
Night brings strange insects
to feed her anxiety
until moths plan a group suicide
inside an ancient table lamp.
A forest burns on its own.
It is not an irony
that a black coal truck
fell over her body
She must have seen it coming
must have felt its weight
like these roads that bear hills
after a landslide
as she slowly died.