how to keep him from falling

I’m learning how to fold smoke 

back into a throat — 

soft light, 

soft ash. 

The house hums with paper. 

Ba flickers between the altar’s 

plastic fruit 

and a bowl of rice. 

Every weekend we trade this silence with fire,

three sticks, 

two bows, 

one breath. 

The air cracks open. 

We feed the ghosts oranges, 

and dollars 

that dissolves into gold. 

They say the prayers keep him from falling.

So I keep my palms open, 

let the wax spill through. 

His name tastes like metal, like 

the last thing left burning. 

The sky’s too far. 

We light another match. 

and again — 

he almost reaches it.