The Bloody Season

by Michael Lee

That place had a taste
like diesel and animal crackers;
even in a house on fire
I could smell
the old stale cigarette smell.
I wore my life with you
like a violent scrimshaw
scratched into my skin
with thorns and iron
and you
you became a paper doll
that retreated into echolalia.
We lived this way
in this decaying orbit
until the weather changed.
When the snow finally arrived
it fell in obelisks and great black pyramids;
it snuffed out the flames
and buried us
a whole crowd now
you, me, and our resentments masquerading as honesty.
We slowly turned from glass to stone.
Come spring
we emerged
relics.