That hot summer
when the railings sang with the heat
and the children dragged dusty feet
through the house,
the lonely lady is burned alive,
somewhere around midnight
the witch’s hour, it was.
Her crisp fingers
curse the world
beneath the tree with its hooked branches
beneath the moon and its sickly glow
beneath his open window
as the curtains flew in
a ghostly flap and a wave.
Her eyes drank the flames,
they licked her face and she swallowed them down
drowning in the bloody heat
and he cannot sleep
and he cannot sleep
he sees her smile and he hears her scream
and he cannot sleep
he hears the crackle crackle
and he cannot sleep
he cannot breathe with his ribs so clenched
he douses the flames with his own hot sweat
and he cannot sleep
he cannot dream and he hears her scream
he buries her bones under his pillow
and he cannot sleep and his death is slow.

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