‘A ball of flame, along she came, flying without the wind.’
There is fire, molten, red hot magma, with streams of shivering blue flame, snaking round her heart. She hides it from the wind, the sky, the stars, but under her lush beauty, there’s a beating fire heart. She lets the sunshine charm her, whispers promises to the night but beneath her dewy beauty is a seething, steaming fire. Betray her as the sky did, dig holes in her sand. You’ll part her sweet beauty and feel her searing hands. There’s a molten fire churning, red hot glowing flow, with form and curve and shape, under the smooth polished stone. Not for nothing I tell you this.
The birds have gone but a new night comes. Her plans can go ahead.
She lays the box down, gently on her bed and opens it with care. Then, releases. Rips each stitch, and unbinds the seam. Pulls me off softly, like a too tight slip or a snake skin. Hips swing and sway to ease me down, it doesn’t hurt, I swear. Peels me off, slip past her thighs and knees, and slide, skim her calves to fold at her ankles. The dance of her flame, shakes on the walls against the candle light. She steps out carefully. This is the slightly tricky part. Takes some skill. Lay me in the box and try not to singe the wood. The dance of the flame silhouettes on the wall. Almost as tall, almost as beautiful as I am, lying in my narrow, wooden bed.
I know what she knows.
Like an Eagle sees the twinkling night, laid out before her, the pricks of light that grid the roads, and graph, and pin-point out where Aggie’s house lies. Like the barrels of puncheon her mother said burned in the fields on that specific night. But the wind is too chill to ride, down a road, and up a hill. Rather crawl along the alleyways, hug the walls and sills, careful not to set anything ablaze.
And there, your door, with the knocker and the brass handle. Solid wood you bragged. Still no lock can keep her out. She finds the crack around the key and eases her way in silently. And now you sleep, just up the stairs, clinging to the lover in your bed. Unaware of what dances in his head. Is that what draws you away? Those skinny legs, arms so soft like risen bread, and belly, pushing out the matted hairs. Don’t worry sister Aggie, soon you’ll know, she needs more of you than he can give. She’ll set you free, from this lame, lumbering mediocrity. One drop of blood. One drop of blood, needling heat into his chest. One drop of blood. One drop of blood. She steals the spirit from his breath. Tastes it on her lips. Whistles. Fourth, fifth, sixth. Her shadow swirls like smoke or mist. She slips back out, under the window-sill.