CRIME Poem: The Day Gabriella Burnt the House Down, by Ezra James Fiddimore

It was a crispy, scratches-the-back-of-the-throat kind of day,
the day Gabriella burnt the house down. It was
A morsel – no, a maw-unhinging kind of bite – yes, the spilling,
sloppy, filthy kind of taste of living, it was, viscous dripping
down around the jaw, neck, doughy banks of the collarbone,
barbeque-flavoured kind of aliveness, it was,
the day Gabriella burnt the house down.

There’s a touch of smoke in the air, said her husband,
Lungs coursing with the black plumes of the marital bed,
There’s a touch of smoke. Tongue, fingertip, held aloft,
A very Winnie-the-Pooh something-or-other about him,
je ne sais quoi, pants around the ankles when he was found,
Don’t you know what Pooh means? Pondered himself to death.
The day Gabriella burnt the house down.

Author: poetryfest

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