Embers: a Poem

For an arsonist, every fire is an opportunity
for new beginnings,
but I see the outline of my friends in the ashes.

This isn’t Pompeii,
but as volcanoes erupt,
I still hear your voice cry my name.

This silence haunts me because I know
it’s the aftermath of a horror.
I see your initials carved into the soot.
But I wrote your biography in flames.

Embers aren’t abandoned.
(They’re forgotten.)

Isabelle Palerma