Raised to Fall

They sent for me. My knees know the stair. The cup's cold. No one lit the lamp. He sits where I once lifted him. I knew his face before the oil. I called you up. I swore you good. The years keep handing it back to me, worn through, turned over, colder now, and spoken in a tone not mine. I poured the oil. I did not shake. The mark it left went dark and stayed. I set the crown where the boy had been. He carries it. It's bending him. I called you up. I meant it then. Each year it sours a little more, worn through, turned over, colder now, and spoken in a tone not mine. I came to take it back. I open my mouth. The rafters give it back a half-tone low. The oath comes down the boards to meet me there and stands where I am standing. I meant it. It went bad all the same. I called you up. There's no way back. The word's still mine. It always was. It comes back worn, it comes back cold, and I am old enough to hear. They'll light the lamp again by dawn. I'm the only one who heard. I gave him up the stair myself, and I can't take the morning back.