Charcoal

Every Saturday, her dad
Would grill in their backyard;
With charcoal hot on cinder blocks,
While she kept watch and guard.

And savory and sapid-sweet
Were those times without care;
Until the day the grill went cold,
And her dad wasn’t there.

See, no one lit those coals again,
Although she looked in vain;
In bars and underneath soft sheets
She sought that taste again.

She could not find her lost charcoal;
Her desperate search – no trace –
Till she woke in a small white room
With charcoal on her face

Author: Beleaguered Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

3 thoughts on “Charcoal”

  1. Thanks for posting this again! I love the way you tell this story. While it’s disturbing, touching, heartbreaking and even hopeful, there’s a strong thread of sweetness that runs throughout. We used to use activated charcoal in pediatrics when kids would come in with poison injestion /overdose, etc … nobody ever left the crisis room without some trace of charcoal somewhere on their person. Hard to contain, but it worked.

    Liked by 2 people

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