POEM: Anichka

Anichka

she burned his books, laughed
as she filmed the fire

she grows more beautiful
with the passage of time

hardened shell a byproduct
of an uncertain past
her mother’s example

the ink on her skin never dries
drips down her fingers

stains the sheets, the carpet
her lips taste of ashes

/ / /

Jason Crane
26 March 2018
State College PA

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