a marrow-cold quiet pools like grease in the dark where she lies
while they scrape sulfur at the threshold, clutching dead matches
begging the black throat of the house to burn so they might find their way
complaining that the shadows have grown too heavy to carry alone
yet refusing to descend into the damp dirt of her cellar
wanting only to strip the warmth from her skin to keep the wind from their throat
she whispered that the black water was already filling her mouth
but they kept dropping heavy iron into the mouth of the well
and calling each anchor a lifeline
demanding she lift the lead back to the surface to prove it could float
screaming for some sweet reassurance from the deep
because the weight of her silence kept them from sleep
so the cold sister crawled up from the damp rot of the floorboards
the ancient, jagged thing kept for when the beams finally split
she slid the heavy iron bolt into place
and told them to peel their soft, demanding hands off the splintered wood
leaving them to weep as the latch bit home like a tooth
now they stand in the gray hall nursing their bruised knuckles
showcasing their shallow wounds to anyone who will listen
swearing the door was carved solely to drink their blood
as if the lock were an act of malice
and not a creature that dragged itself beneath the porch
to finish what the cold started without an audience
they wanted to dance in the clover while the timber was splintering
and now they grieve the soot that stained their pristine coat
while she remains buried under the falling beams
holding up the burning ceiling so they can walk out into the light unmarked
—lyra moon (one cannot ask the drowning to keep another’s feet dry)
july 14, 2026