You burn at my heart, your powerful flames
render me dead with their lashings of heat.
Don’t delay, don’t tease, please don’t play games
I’m left destitute, homeless, nothing but meat
for rats to scavenge at. I’m blood dyed;
they’re led by the stench of fluids to tear
at my flesh; its raw, pained, incarnadine,
as if I’m a mannequin, dressed in fear.
Shed me a tear, please, clothe me in satin
crushed, voluptuous, scarlet, laid to rest
with rose-garlands in a crystal coffin.
Red-admirals hover, my funeral guests.
They leave me with a trail of ruby dust
masking the sun’s fall in the haze of dusk.
Claire Smith collects books. She asks for them for every special occasion: anniversaries, birthdays, Christmastime, Easter, and for Valentine’s Day, of course. Any excuse. Her internet wish-lists are private as she is so embarrassed about the number of bookcases and the piles of books that are mounting ever larger through their terraced house. The books that even occupy staircase space, so that you risk life and limb when trying to go up and down them! Even their precious cat feels so ignored she complains bitterly by pushing books off of the shelves . . . It feels only right, and proper then, that Claire, not only shares her life with a writer, but that she should aspire to write, too.
Published 2/14/26