"It was a pleasure to burn." -- Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451.

**

This is her Kaddish, though it is a word she never heard.

This is where she began and this is where he ended.

This is where destiny spoke.

She was the chosen one; exile child of a land that existed in dreams and memories.

He was her teacher.

That which was written, shall be.

This is what he taught her.

This is what she learned.

An eye for an eye, that was how she paid for the murder of her kin.

Kindred for kindred.

That was her purifying mikvah of fire, though the blood spilled was not her own.

She burned those who tried to destroy her Temple.

That was revenge that she took on the strongest enemy.

She let him live, let him survive his kind.

This is what she brought back here.

A message about the massacre in the name of her teacher.

This is her grief.

She has nothing to offer, but love.

This was his lesson.

The heat of the flesh is the vision of love.

This is the way she shows her love.

This is his last bed.

This is her, slipping inside, sinking into him.

This is his last shape, molding into hers.

This is his dust, clinging to her skin.

This is her mouth wide open.

This is her, breathing him in.

These are her ears to hear him.

This is her, listening to his whispered voice.

These are her eyes to see him.

She shuts her eyelids, for he is there, behind them, always.

These are her thighs spread wide.

This is her first.

This is her, pushing a handful of him inside herself;

Further and further until he is touching her heart, touching her soul.

This is her goodbye.

This is her blood spilled.

This is them, together for the first and last time.

Blood and dust on her fingers.

This is the mourning prayer.