They said that what was ‘us’ must die.
The confession twirled over half of the city:
half-asleep, half-naked.
Half-truth.
It spiralled into whispers
we hear every night before we go to bed
with someone else, or no one.
It sank in so that sometimes I think I feel the ache of the water running through my body.
70% - 60% - 50%:
less water than in other bodies.
Half-empty, half-full.
It let the candle flames blow themselves out into a wish,
just as the fire, to taste them,
latched onto their greasy-bright light, dipped in its salty waters,
burning in the dark till
ashes tamed the whisper, embodied it, mirrored it, flickered with light.
And there, in the stillness of the room
fluttering in the darkness, I stole the breath
from the air and the night, their own light.
It's what I will be then.
https://www.littlebrown.com/titles/hannah-kent/burial-rites/9780316243902/#module-whats-inside
Photo credits: