My Intentions
Photographic, in a way, healthy as black ash. Sabotage, tonguelessness. A book of matches. Miriam buried to her neck, irretrievable, and James crawling across the yellow mud on his belly. I did not burn this one.
Empty
Sockets, her gums, a fashion much the same as memory. A buck knife or what he called a Bowie knife.
The Terror
Cussing and behind them, a speck in the fields. Up to his haunches in water turned to steam. At my chest, tantalizing. In their usual fashion, sometimes Miriam was James, sometimes a blowtorch, the sour poison crusted to their cheeks. I carried a loaf of white bread, James managed to scrounge canned goods, extra sackfuls of corn, beans, peas, rice, tomato sauce. Like Donald Trump the blood cooling and opening and closing to the sky.
Black Ash
The blood photographic in memory, much the same as a buck knife or what he called Miriam. My chest, healthy as a blowtorch, cooling and opening. Tonguelessness turned to steam in their usual fashion: irretrievable, tantalizing, poison.
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