Is oiled wet where the oil popped
Grease on the mary-blue
Turning-white fire-blooms, blooming fast
From the encrusted stove.
Tattooed with the salt, the pepper,
The dry parsley flakes,
The chicken breast blacks stiffly while
Night children sleep.
Unclasp the gold chain, the tired shoe
And come with me! he said.
In his quick boy’s eye, he caught her flying up
Shoe removed, bone and skin shed.
The sun rose and her sons rose to find clothes
Scattered in open repose
A little ashen chicken loosing orange glows;
A recently shut-off stove.
Who stole her, cries the youngest.
Where is she, moans the oldest.
A pale man with no skin, flying due west
He thinks, standing, the coldest.
by: Doreen St. Felix, Contributor
Image Credit: Christies.com