You do it with a ruler and a steady wrist. One wet line. The lamp does not move. Three young names sit under mine on that page and the page has to hold when they come to read it. I watch your sleeve come down. I hear the ink. You do not look up. You do not have to. It is dry before I reach the door. You strike my name out, and the ledger holds Knock and I answer Knock and I answer You come when the lamps are out, the thing under your coat. You knock the way a man knocks who wants nobody to hear. A kettle. The seam gone. The kettle your mother left you. I take it in. You stand back where the light does not reach. I close the seam. You turn it once, warm in your hands. You will tell them you found a man in the next town. I hold the door for you. I do not ask you to say my name. The kettle leaves warm and carries no name Knock and I answer Knock and I answer There you are at the edge of the square. Say nothing. Good. Stay there. This is the work that would clear me. Look at it. The ledger calls me Erased Maker. Now watch her work. I put the work in the fire, let it burn Knock and I answer Knock and I answer By morning, ash lies on the stones. The ledger holds.
