They Have Little Feet

          by Cheyenne Price

Because the little one has
     been asking about the
                                            monsters and silhouettes
on the wall, I’ve been
                    forced to seek the fire for a
                                secret dance
                                            in the witching hour.

We are so subtly chanting, waving our hands and
                    throwing our bodies
                                            so that
                    our selves can dance without the knuckles
                                            of flesh.
I throw my eyes toward the ceiling,
        I shake my hair and it falls away in
                                floating off from
                                                        my head.
The fire consumes
                                the gold and brown
                    I am able to shed the flesh,
                                            open my ribcage
        and replace my lungs
with the dust
                                in the air.
The fire curls around the old skin
                    and begins to paint it
                                            brown. Blackened
                                                        like charcoal
and it fades away.
        rubs against
                                my temples
                    and there’s
                      a ring
                                            on the floor.