Genie

Smoke left the lamp before the wish did. A genie rose in a curl of heat, the old spirit of the brass, larger than the room and still bound to it. The ask hung in the air and was not spoken. People who rubbed that metal carried a genie gift of unfinished wanting. It shows again in genie playing cards that feel warm from the stack, in a genie notebook with the wish written and the page not turned, in a genie postcard of the lamp and the smoke. The brass cools. The curl does not settle.