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.