Unicorn

In the cellar
I found a unicorn.
A jumbled pile
in the dark.
Its skin was seared,
and it stank
of burnt hair.
The eyes were gone.
Two red craters.
The ears torn,
the tongue ripped
out by the roots.
Fractured limbs
folded under it,
blackened twigs.
A bonfire. A pyre.

I smeared a drop
of blood into
its hide with
my fingertip,
and whispered
a prayer to it.
It thrashed,
the horn struck
the radiator
throwing sparks
across the tiles.
The rug burnt,
smoke rose
thick in my nostrils.
I vomited,
but it was milk.
A lightbulb hung
from the joist,
a golden noose.

The unicorn screamed,
levitated, bit down
on the naked bulb
and was thrown
back to the floor.
Its spit dripped
from a slack jaw,
its mouth bled.
My heart beat.
All I wanted
was to gather
its broken limbs
up in my arms.
It shuddered,
nostrils flaring,
gave one last
awful retch,
and its being
poured out
of its mouth.

As I collapsed,
I felt something
bear me up,
and everything
was white.