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.