Winter, 2013–2014 / No. 31

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

for centuries, then freed herself into a swarm

of monarchs. May have made this up,

but it’s consoling how a soul endures

in fiction too.