His whispers first caress
her body’s field
like apple blossoms
covered in bees.
And then,
she sees flames come,
come licking scarlet vines
across his back,
commemorating sleep’s inevitability,
vicious and unforgiving.
A severed pair expects
no spare moments,
no moments to share
behind a smoke
-strewn
sky.
Until . . .
Save me in bits, she prays.
His screams strike might
like irons against time’s silent crescendo,
while her heated flesh whispers
and wakes her
to the dizzying scent
of apple blossoms buzzing.
Brenda Warren 2014
This one came rather quickly. It is not autobiographical, but grief imagined. There is a lot left unsaid. My imagination fills it with story, and I hope yours hooks into the piece, too.
I used “strike” instead of “struck.”