Stench

Dark red, luscious apples felled from her own tree long ago Under the beaming sun plummeted with a soft, aching blow The sweat drips and plops, scruple over a furrowed brow Upon the discovery of rot that blackened her plow “Has the wind gone mad–or am I the one insane? Dirt and grime, high dry–surely the only way to explain” Denial among hatred, she could not face–but under the murk, bits Beneath, the snakes–surly and shabby—placed high their bids The heat danced faster as the days passed far less paced Her blonde hair bleached and pruned, but left one space The temple on her right seemed blank and bruised As a failed blow far too long past was nearly used The magazine fell as she begins filtering the rot past her mind She screams, shouts, yelps and cries, sobs of an animal forgotten by time “I never meant for this to go–go and blow up like this! I never meant. . . I never meant for me to hurt our kids.” Too far from gone she was, behind silken white bars and drenched in ammonia “I know, my love, but I must leave and forget you—may heaven forbid us, Aurora”