Days after the dust had settled,
agony groaned to a halt. The
ceaseless creaks of mangled chain
or guttural hacks of broken ribs
disturbed the woods no more. Breaking
the spring’s dewdrop frost air was
a man who refused to die. He
was grievously injured and the smell
of cadaverine haunted him as
he crawled across the ossuary,
clambering over corpses; some
missed their faces, if not their
souls.
Interrupting a cricket’s chirp was
a hum from a dazzling figure;
she glowed in the early spring
moon, walking amongst the dead
in a cherry-picking strut. He
called to her, but only blood left his lips.
He tried to catch her but
she dashed away too
soon.
He still heard her hum, her
unnatural hum — it scared
him, then warmed him, before
it lulled him to a quiet sleep.
He woke to a golden dawn, his
body left far down below. The
wounds no longer wept down
his side. He spun in place
before
he saw her, and suddenly
he remembered all he’d
lost.
She led him away and they
walked as the sun rose, then
later evening as the stars
melted away. He felt euphoric
as the clearing greened once more,
unspeckled by farmers’ sons
who’d dreamt of tilling it years
before. Together they step,
still twirling and spinning through
dawn, dusk, and dark, each
holding the other as they dance a
dark mazurka in that fallow field.
