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She could almost taste

those sweet little feet, caked

with residue of a barefoot summer.

 

Tempted now by the deep green

emerald stickiness of freshly mown grass,

the gravelly spice of too hot asphalt, and perfume

of arches sweating pre-adolescent funk.

 

It had been awhile since Bridget had feasted,

and the radiant chill of the soil was leeching

through the mahogany box into her crepe-soft flesh.

 

But the red glowing heat

of their footsteps summoned her up. Like flashing

Christmas lights, strobing into her bed with every step

on the ground overhead.

 

The other 5 senses heightened now,

super charged the moment Henry Thompson

replaced her blood with embalming fluid.

 

It seemed contradictory, but

there were different rules for what she was now.

 

Her ears perked, the Mother trying

to herd the group (four children, she thought).

“Do not walk on those graves.

The witches will follow you home and eat you up tonight.”

 

The remnants of Bridget’s lips turned up on the ends.

It was nice to be remembered.



Amy H. Robinson writes poetry and flash fiction. She has been published in Pearl, Flash Fiction Press, and The Great American Poetry Show, and edits Apparition Literary Mag. Amy is surrounded by cats and ghosts, and lives in a small house by the sea with her husband. She rambles on Twitter at @AmyQotwf.
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