Deserts too are the source of it:

as a child who would be contented crying

or a lace purse that becomes more full

of holes delights in losing balms.

Forget, forget: the cream dilutes

its fats into black tea, unfurls.

What would I admit to?

I enjoyed observing: things

disappear. We are not permitted

articulate visions of their last moments

in our hands. The swathes of burned flesh

regain their healthy pink

while the owner sleeps.

I can’t explain here. Discomfort

wails until she’s tired; arnica stings.