There’s a tale I recall when I’m in deep:
Some lanky, long-faced girl with tumours
in her cheeks like blush was ushered off
to England to allay her parents. She pulled
into Devon’s pier as lightning likewise
settled into her, unleashed its streak
of Lichtenberg across her thigh. She’ll never die.
She slept beneath the statue Verity
of monarchs. May have made this up,
but it’s consoling how a soul endures
in fiction too.