Fire, my friend

Soft lips, pale toes, hands
puckered into fists
waving blindly, crying
softly, breath a fresh
lemon scent
tendrils of soft
wails floating through the smoky air.

Drifts of curls seep through
the door, elongated
in a perverse dance
I guess it would be crucial
to move, but it’s a warm embrace
love from those who have
departed, they say hello
waving hands of smoke
fingers of ash and I grasp them
tightly, me and my little boy
we would be happy to join you.

I wrote this poem with the story of the Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman in mind.

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