Sacrifice & Murder (New Poem)

I'm finishing up American Gods for book club this weekend. I've read it before, even discussed it here on the blog, and I'm quite excited to be talking about it with real people. Finally.

That being said, something about reading Neil Gaiman makes you think Hey, I could write. I tend to do this after reading a book by an author with a really clear, really engaging literary styles. Much in the same way I want to go to the back yard and practice cartwheels after watching gymnastics on the Olympics. Folks that are that good make their thing look easy.

Invariably, I start a story and it ends up exactly where my gymnastic attempts do: flopped in the dirt, ruining a perfectly clean and pressed outfit. (Really, someone should stop my flipping when I'm wearing nice clothes.)

All that said, here's a poem.

Love and Lyte,

Fire Lyte

Sacrifice & Murder

The corner of my window

A part where dust rag doesn't quite reach.
Where one doesn't look until company comes over.

but, then, we all know company
doesn't come to look at windowsills,
do they

Collection of dust there, in the corner
where nobody looks.
except, when inspected, the dust is cobwebs.

Dilapidated, assuredly, and perhaps
'remnants of cobwebs' is more apropos.
Cobwebs nonetheless.

Lo and behold a spider
legs finer than its own dilapidated remnant
webbing clinging to the corner
like so much dust.

Looking for all the world like something
living in a forgotten corner,
given conditioned shelter and a view,
but no fly.

The irony is that a dead bug lay 
not six inches from Spider's corner,
but it was so big and the
spider so weak, it seemed to have
hidden behind its wisp of a shelter.
Watching the feast die from concentrated
summer windowsill heat.

I grab a match and strike it,
lighting it on instinct --
the kind of instinct that tells you
to burn spiders in forgotten

The web doesn't even burn.
It evanesces. Vanishing.
Spider stands, some last strength nonsense,
but doesn't run. It offers its legs,
and I take them.

There is a part of me that
instantly wishes the waif-creature 
had died from shock.

I burn the legs of the dead feast-bug
laying inches away


Holding the match to eye level,
I watch it burn to fingertip.
Felt the burn, solidly, and 
set the match down on the sill.

Flame stayed a full minute on the 
end of the charred match stick,
working some arcane sacrificial magic
I knew not of and then 
extinguished without smoke.


  1. "Invariably, I start a story and it ends up exactly where my gymnastic attempts do: flopped in the dirt, ruining a perfectly clean and pressed outfit."

    A wise person once told me that you have to write roughly a million words of crap before you can write a story that's good. I'm starting to think there's some truth to that. So keep writing!


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