Strapped to the hunters back, the pine box
Weighted heavily after a long night.
Upon returning to a safe place,
He places it onto the nightstand.
He has a moment to rest
While the sun is still up.
He carefully removes a wooden stake,
Still wet with blood.
Along with a mallet used
to drive the stake into the heart.
A wooden cross and a few jars
Filled with clear liquid.
A set of elegant flintlock pistols
Small enough to fit in a coat pocket.
A bullet mould and a dozen .32 caliber
Bullets cast with silver.
Powder and patch to load
He cleans each tool with a damp cloth
Before returning it to the box.
As the sun sets, he places the loaded pistols
Into each coat pocket.
The stake and mallet,
He puts into the lining of his coat.
He straps the pine box to his back
To face what hides in the dark.
Only to be illuminated by the flash
Of black powder before the driving of the stake.
More Than an Awkward Phase
She illuminates in class,
Unlucky to be born this way.
Her classmates strike her with textbooks,
Shouting Freak, Mutie, Outcast.
The police lock the child in irons.
The news feed is constant:
Report suspicious behavior and abilities.
Lucia sits in her prison cell,
A thirteen-year-old guilty of having a gift.
Her powers keep the dark lonely cell
Warm and lit, as she makes
Shadow puppets on the wall.
Three days without food or contact
Drive warm fingers into concrete walls
Superheating earth into lava.
She walks out free, alone, and afraid.
A single light in overwhelming shadow.