Incarnate

Maisie Miller is in the final year of her BA (Honours) in English.

She laughs in the face

of the wolves.

Purged of her

scarlet shawl,

the red hood falls;

lies flushing

in the sting of the fire.

 

She slips

from yellowed muslin,

stained from use,

and drops it in the begging blaze.

Hand-me-down, passed around,

aflame.

 

She is an achromatic mirage.

The naked, atmospheric illusion

with only flesh to undress.

Hair to singe.

Skin to sear.

 

Listen closely

to the viscid

salivary swallowing.

The sound of singing

‘What big mouths you have’

through the lips of a hungry pack.