They Have Little Feet
Because the little one has
been asking about the
monsters and silhouettes
on the wall, I’ve been
forced to seek the fire for a
secret dance
in the witching hour.
We are so subtly chanting, waving our hands and
throwing our bodies
elsewhere
so that
our selves can dance without the knuckles
of flesh.
I throw my eyes toward the ceiling,
I shake my hair and it falls away in
tufts,
floating off from
my head.
The fire consumes
the gold and brown
strands.
Eventually,
I am able to shed the flesh,
open my ribcage
and replace my lungs
with the dust
in the air.
The fire curls around the old skin
and begins to paint it
brown. Blackened
like charcoal
and it fades away.
Ash
rubs against
my temples
and there’s
a ring
of
posies
on the floor.