Edwardina was her name which etched
burned on the edge of paper
much like her fingers burned on my skin
traces and digits, points of pressure
even the softest touch would
leave open wounds I can feel until today,
phantom limbs

I used to trap Edwardina on ink and paper; she
would be my heroine of devastated and
empty cities of fury, full of skeletons in closets
and corpses in the living room, the bright dust of
sin sticking to every hollow corner of
her figure in a statue of salt: lustful and still.
I used to trap Edwardina in a feeble attempt
to assert the will that was so easily bent
between legs and dawn and
broken

Then Edwardina was gone in a night or
less of a fickle fever
her brain swollen to edge of her
pressing skull did not let thoughts out,
I said to myself, to excuse her for that absent
goodbye

Now with her no longer on the air
or otherwise
I am bound to these pages and bound to capture her
by arson

I trapped Edwardina in every way I deemed possible,
her name all over journals and
her hands and hair out in the night or
in between sheets
endless stories which would never end unless she
ended herself

When my speech became faulty and disheveled because of
all the words I'd spent trying to carve and burn Dina
on notebooks, they sent me somewhere I wouldn't need them and
the doctors said those stories were irreproducible, as if
those words had been encrypted, only for Dina and me

they were probably too prudish to
read them out loud







Special thanks to TheDeadGuy who reminded me of
a song
I had forgotten