We were finished

with them, had

cleaned them

out hollow.

Scraped and cut

and sliced.

Nowhere to put

the corpses, the

shells. Empty skin

sagging heavy

on our minds.


Licking flames did

not swallow them up

as hungrily as we’d hoped.

The trash smoked,

clogged our throats,

fogged our eyes.

Stood untouched

among the wood.

There was some lifeblood

fighting, sizzling,


I even had to get up

and move, and

I did not like that.

Avocado skins

just don’t burn very well.


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