Desolate Dispatch

The cellar. Cautious toes tempt the steps down. The pull. Loose dresses betray her hips. In little grins pungent with the pageants of lazy gods. The earth. Like a grave. The whisper of touch. Laces tied by nervous fingers. The coax of footprints. The patience of the sand.

The child. The seduction. Every breath is helium. The air too heavy. Time too arrogant. To suspect we could manipulate what it does to us.

I find the beginning. Drag the end to it. I steal the sound of his failing attempts to own her. I listen. And am deafened by the silence.

The cellar. The grim. of cooking witches in candy houses. The woods. The sanctuary. Of victims. As they please the fire.

The accurate. The seldom. The man with his back to the window. The world close enough to grab.