Witch’s pyre

You built it without walls, this pavillion, to house our son and you, and I. And this creek with its clear water to wash; its waters cool from the mountain of ice. Your mountain of ice. Our common ground. Once you knelt on it, consort to queen.

But now it is set alight. The hammocks first; as though I would look on them again. The tall supports. The roof rafters. The flame licks along them as you and I have licked each other’s skin, but then it roots deeply, seeking out that dryness and then consuming.

I fill the creek with gasoline merely for the pleasure of watching it burn as well and I toss into it the small paraphenalia – this stick where you first stepped; the log where you sat, the crop and the whip.

The tree against which we fucked took a while to fell and it is green yet so it sends up clouds of smoke, but the fire is strong.

It will all be consumed. I will visit then and leave my footprints among its final form. Ash. And I will taste ashes in my throat. And I will return to my still rooms of stone and I will kiss our son with ashes on my lips and I will bathe him in that still stone tub. And I will whisper to him of the value of love.

Maelynn

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About Jenn

Find me on Twitter @JennGruden
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