fever

soft music, the smell of nutmeg drifting
through the cabin, flames casting shadows
in dizzying arcs all across the walls
breath-fogged windows coated
with crystalline ice clusters

crackling, from the fireplace and speaker
as needle drags through groove
like carving fresh wounds from old scars
a tragic thrum binding some mournful
angel, whose wings spread inside her throat

she must have been as cold
as the fire, itself burning as if to store
enough heat to remain alight, whilst
splotches of blood trail outside
through an open door, onward into snow

a strong gust could interrupt the needle
but the silence is already deeper
than a loss in the perception of sound
where the trail ends, a body
lies face down, one arm outstretched

the other, clutching at the stomach