stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 14272
    [post_author] => 4
    [post_date] => 2011-08-16 21:03:52
    [post_date_gmt] => 2011-08-16 21:03:52
    [post_content] => On your birthday, I go into the garden
with the words of a child tied with white ribbon.
This is symbolic, probably.
Still, it makes sense,
since these are all that’s left of her body,
and here I am, burning the evidence of her existence.

Yes, I am here. I could still hold her little hand
In crowds, clinging to me as always,
she could stay longer, folded away; harmless.
Yet one day, perhaps by the sea;
Perhaps clambering up the dark stairs together into St. Michael’s;
The familiarity, touches, whispers -
I will lose sight of her and maybe…

“Hush.” The match reassures, twinkling.
Love, pinpointed at half-four in the afternoon
Goes up smokily;
A drawing ranked ‘poor’ amongst other shames;
The names I called you -

No more. She has gone out small and dazzling
And cannot testify alone now;
Vague inaccuracies crumble into flakes.
Inside somewhere, your children are helping you find the matches.
I know, I know, I know, I know
They’re on your shelf.

Having once written down the words,
I can’t throw that little girl away.
    [post_title] => Burning
    [post_excerpt] => 
    [post_status] => publish
    [comment_status] => closed
    [ping_status] => closed
    [post_password] => 
    [post_name] => burning
    [to_ping] => 
    [pinged] => 
    [post_modified] => 2015-11-26 13:18:53
    [post_modified_gmt] => 2015-11-26 13:18:53
    [post_content_filtered] => 
    [post_parent] => 0
    [guid] => http://poems.poetrysociety.org.uk/?post_type=poems&p=14272
    [menu_order] => 0
    [post_type] => poems
    [post_mime_type] => 
    [comment_count] => 0
    [filter] => raw
    [meta_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [wpcf-published-in] => 
            [wpcf-date-published] => 2011
            [wpcf-summary-description] => 
            [wpcf-rights-information] => 
            [wpcf-poem-award] => Winner, Like Starlings Challenge 2011
            [wpcf_pr_belongs] => 
        )

    [poet_data] => stdClass Object
        (
            [ID] => 13626
            [forename] => Emma
            [surname] => Warren
            [title] => Emma Warren
            [slug] => emma-warren
            [content] => Emma Warren is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Univocal' and 'Like Starlings' poetry challenges.
        )

)
stdClass Object
(
    [ID] => 13626
    [forename] => Emma
    [surname] => Warren
    [title] => Emma Warren
    [slug] => emma-warren
    [content] => Emma Warren is a winner of the Young Poets Network 'Univocal' and 'Like Starlings' poetry challenges.
)

Burning

Emma Warren

On your birthday, I go into the garden
with the words of a child tied with white ribbon.
This is symbolic, probably.
Still, it makes sense,
since these are all that’s left of her body,
and here I am, burning the evidence of her existence.

Yes, I am here. I could still hold her little hand
In crowds, clinging to me as always,
she could stay longer, folded away; harmless.
Yet one day, perhaps by the sea;
Perhaps clambering up the dark stairs together into St. Michael’s;
The familiarity, touches, whispers –
I will lose sight of her and maybe…

“Hush.” The match reassures, twinkling.
Love, pinpointed at half-four in the afternoon
Goes up smokily;
A drawing ranked ‘poor’ amongst other shames;
The names I called you –

No more. She has gone out small and dazzling
And cannot testify alone now;
Vague inaccuracies crumble into flakes.
Inside somewhere, your children are helping you find the matches.
I know, I know, I know, I know
They’re on your shelf.

Having once written down the words,
I can’t throw that little girl away.