The Four Elements: Fire
After Joachim Beuckelaer

This is not the Oxford Christmas market,
meat arrayed in rows, startled eyes that burn.
These are not corpses become objets d’art,
taxidermy glazing death in socket.

In this kitchen, where maid turns murderer,
she must first be priest, closing each bird eye
that it may not see the indignity
of plucking, stuffing, throwing on the fire.

Blood drains in those final moments, reveals
not stained glass, capillaries lit on lids,
nor yet the black we fear these godless days,
but goose flesh, white, once-feathered white, white heat.

Anne Welsh

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