Wicker Man

Last night,
I dreamt of the Wicker Man.

Could take both his pinkies
And ignite the tips.
Watch the candlestick bleed
Into a new kind of wax.

I could take each
Cream flower
Nesting a teacup,
Could rub the petals
On my eyelids,
Chew the Easter color.

But the Wicker Man is charred.
I’ve seen him eat flowers too.
I’ve seen him brew tea
In kettles over his own chest.
I’ve seen his eyes under my shoes
And within my own fire.

He does smile.
The Wicker Man does smile at me.

Jamie Fleming

Jamie is an English major and Creative Writing minor at Cumberland University, and she works for her university's writing center as the Head Writing Specialist. When not stressing over her busy schedule, she enjoys writing cryptic poetry and taking care of her pet turtle.

NOVUS Literary and Arts Journal
Lebanon, TN