this infection

In this barren bone-place
there is a chill that may or may not
be yours.

They have buried you deep, I know.
A bed of roses covers you now,
but I do not know just how far
the dirt goes.

I have forgotten.
It has been twenty years since they locked you up
in the trunk of the car. They drove you far -
you were in bad shape, but you were alive.

On that bare day on Lemon Road
they doused you with gas and they
set you on fire. A flick of the match
and you died.

They say you inhaled the smoke.

I have forgotten this, the day of your death.
It has passed by this year without even a glance
at the books that were written about you,
and I am sorry that I did not spare a thought for you
although I do now, remembering the day you died
and the events leading up to your death.