Her mouth makes the sound of a kettle whistle –
high, sharp, spinning into air like smoke. I watch.
Everyone around her watches. Her body peeling back
on itself to reveal a wet heart, all of her beautiful organs.
When a man makes miracles happen he is God,
and when a woman walks on water she is burnt,
boiled to black bone, aware of her poached flesh
melting into flames – hot at her heels, inevitable.
They say she placed warm milk by her sleeping children
in case they woke up, blocked the gap under their door,
placed her head in the oven – thought sweet apple pie,
rack of lamb, fresh bread. She turned the gas on.