As a child, I’d place my upside-down heart-shaped nose—
a LaBine trait—
to the window screen of the upstairs living room,
pulling the cool air of my backyard into my little lungs.
That childhood home housed my body, and me within it.
A dark and deep nostalgic hole,
being inside a house, inside a body—
like looking at a half-burned candle,
liquid wax sitting atop the layers still solid.
That sort of burning takes time,
but the outside air made the fire burn faster.
