from Edward Gorey’s Gashlycrumb Tinies

She burns as only little girls can,
her whole body turned to heat
and light, arms and legs mere arcs
of dark ink against the white
space of her hatred, her ire. The drapery,
the carpet can only hope she’ll
allow their embrace against the flames
before it’s too late.
But the wall
has seen this all before and recedes.
He could feel her heart begin to brew
while she hid behind the couch, knew she’d soon
be desert dry and ripe for the lightning
of her mother’s voice, calling her to come out
and say she’s sorry, when Rhoda,
very definitely, is Not.