It is the light I hold onto,
when they take her shuddering and strange
from her bed, toes dragging against wooden
splinters, head hung low.
She seems separate
in that billowing shift, the look she gives me, readying herself for prying hands.
A maiden of God, they fasten her body up,
afraid the spirit will curdle their skin,
turn them.
She reaches out, a muddy line
under her nails.
Lucia's throat sliced open, her skin folded back,
rivulets of blood around her shoulders.
'This is me' I hear her say,
as they run the tip of the blade
over her eyelashes.
'This is me' as they carve out
her coralline eyes.
