Eirene Gentle
What Was It
Another heatwave. Don’t go out, they warn. Bolt doors, lock windows. Slam cracked lips on all that smoke and wind. It’ll pass. They say. Maybe. Until then, cage dry teeth. Snap when pressed. Crawl in the spice rack. Boil until flesh is white and flakes easily. Before this ash-tongue, before this murder-eye, what was it again? Hot we say meaning something else.
Eirene Gentle writes, mostly lit, mostly little, usually from Toronto, Canada. Gratefully published in some amazing journals.