by Cordy Walker

Francisco de Goya, “Incantation” (circa 1797)

She’s dying, she’s dying, she’s dying, she’s dead,
Unzipped thoughts, a dismembered head.

Red soaked gardens, the smell of copper,
No one could save her, no one could stop her.

Dripping, dripping, dripping, drowned,
The maker smiled, the finder frowned.

Crimson leaves, a bright blue coat,
The puddles will deepen, the people won’t float.

Slipping, slipping, slipping, fell,
Down the hill and down the well.

No more stories, no more rhymes,
Laughing kids or music chimes.

Swaying, swaying, swaying, dropped,
Through the air and never stopped.

Baby’s cradle hit the ground,
Crying stopped and not a sound.

Jumping, jumping, jumping, tripped,
Hit the candle, caught on quick.

Spreading heat, the smell of burning,
Toasted flesh and children learning.

About the author

Cordy Walker (he/they) is a queer, disabled student and poet from California who plans to study film. He has been immersed in the arts all his life, being involved in theatre, writing, and creating since early childhood. His favorite show is The Twilight Zone and his favorite poet is Richard Siken.

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