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His hands quivered in the moonlight—
wine stains could pass for blood.
She removed Papa’s ax from her sack,
and after two whacks,
his hands were “put to sleep.”
She tossed them into the campfire—
finger-like flames ate the hands
and wanted more.
They grabbed her skirt’s hem
and traveled up her legs.
She became an altar candle—
her body warmed the frigid night,
oblivious to the life sentence
handed to the sheriff.