A Box Plait

He brought wine;

red, rosé;

and in front of a

flaming car

her memory

opened it and smiled,

all teeth,

from ear to ear,

and she drank from

the bottle

like a jackal,

her eyes alight

like her mother’s,

and he swooped in

and offered a glass,

chivalrous then,

her hand stretched

out – long and white –

indifferent to

the fire; fueled;

and his blood

dripped into the glass,

she licked her lips,

and drank again

like this was her

final time, because

it was, and his

new Kentucky

home smells

cold like leaves,

dirty and crisp,

dead outside; shell;

and his blood

is black from guilt;

taut and sick;

like it should be,

and hope died,

a little more,

that September,

when ignorance

drove home


~ by Shawn M. Young on November 10, 2017.

3 Responses to “A Box Plait”

  1. So powerful!

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