The Well

She says don’t speak to me of the well, and shows me

Her house, the colour of sun-bleached brick and wiped clean beige counters

Wedged into the coast with many, no beach line, houses half sunk

 

The top, unlucky level thirteen, cold dread rationed from above

A maze of bedrooms, torn butcher’s paper loud in the wind

Drawn through the crawl in and die spaces, she’s slept in them all

 

At the bottom a stair, a basement, a cupboard, a breach

An earthen shaft, lousy with wet

The ocean counting in waves, flushing us down

 

Light stained by brown water, a rise and then a dip

And then dry clay too deep for roots

A line of memory a long way back up

 

I see the well, below

I see hellfire, horn crowned lords, the classics

But I don’t understand

 

She says

Don’t speak to me of the well

It goes deeper still

You see the top

 

She says

You draw from the bottom

You dig forever down

You are well past the sight of others

 

She points, wings, chains, blood and iron

 

Says, these are things like any other

They are solid, make sense

 

You do not need the rules to be real

 

Hell is where the fire comes from

And there is fire here to burn anything

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