The Statue

by March 24, 2016 0 comments

He takes her hands in his
she is warm to his touch
and smiles though she has tears.
He leans forward and kisses her

tasting her mouth, salt on her
face. He is hot, she is soft
as his tongue is aflame, his
stomach ablaze. Snow falls

as she steps back, smiling again.
There are flowers to gather and
snow flakes to catch, she mustn’t
miss her bus.

He stands as she withdraws her
fingers from his fire she turns
to go, he is rooted to the spot,
water running off him as she

catches snowflakes in her basket
and poppies in her hair. She sings
softly a lullaby to herself. He is
planted where he stands, watching

as her hair fills with crimson, her
basket with cool white. Slowly
she makes her way, as his blood
turns to stone in him and he

will never move again. She steps
aboard her bus, she gazes toward
the statue that she touched. It is time
to return to the asylum.

– Chrissie Morris Brady

editors note:

Stone cold love or hot delusion? Get back on the bus! – mh clay

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