Poem: Banshee

Banshee

Her dire smile, a flame in the maze
of his morphine miasmas. She dabs
his face with fresh cloths, smooths

tremors from scorched limbs -
his immortal nurse, starched,
swathing blisters in zinc balms.

Gentle, she swaps clotted bandages
for clean swaddle, white as a lily
on a new-sown grave. She grieves

in soft murmurs as he shudders
for each half-breath -- no need
for her to howl from turrets

this night: wires and machines
will siren his certain liberty
from the shackle of crisp flesh.

... is that too many modifiers for modern tastes? Whatever, this version is better than the original posted to pffa ...