the

flame

of

the

candle

was bent into shape as

though a blacksmith had

twirled its plasma using

a pair of tongs. it was a

fairly pretty candle but it

was nothing extraordinary,

thick pillared and scored like

an old Mediterranean column;

it wasn’t perfectly cylindrical either

for in certain places the wax swelled

while in others it was sucked in

like a stomach holding onto

air. yes, there was nothing

special about this candle other than

the fact that it had been lit and

crowded around it there were

big, curious eyes and hungry mouths

that could practically taste the cake.

the wick fumed and a petering

and thin snarl of grey smoke, grey

like a face blanched in sweat, its

pallor muted, swayed rhythmically

gyrating with the ringing, ear-bled

chorus of hungry mouths. in a dim

corner of the room a crouching mother

held to her eye a camera to capture

for posterity a moment that like other

moments would otherwise fade if not for

the evidence. with a grin

she removed the lens from her pupil

and joined the chorus and made

her advance toward the birthday boy

whose eyes were gleaming with the stroke

of a single flame. seeing tigers, the boy

made a wish, a long one, and puffed his

cheeks feeling his mother’s hands on his shoulders

and he snuffed out the flame of the candle with a single

wolf-like huff and there arose laughter, bales of it,

and the hound woofed and hands clapped.