She burns. She writhes. She seizes.
She’s summer.
She’s dying.
They come to her floating to not let their gown tear on the bones of other bearers of ice.
They assumed to be an ice princess were actually fluid.
Cool, sweet, healing ambrosia.
They leave a cold trail of splashes from her pursed purple lips to the core of her heat.
Before, they love, they ask.
She opens her feverish eyes in small slits.
“Please.”
They drink until her shaking subsides.
They wipe her sweat with their wings.
She becomes still and pale.
They lift her leaving marble hollowed of soul.
Weeping, her mother traces the figure’s chilly cracks looking for her boiling daughter.
Mamma cannot comprehend her fire’s consumption.
Mamma never believed in the warning stories of warming.
Mamma bows her head knowing there is nothing to trust in her tears.
Mamma becomes the red clay covered end.
