her best friend often stayed the night with her
       swapping stories of strangers and magics
               whilst sipping consecrated wine,
           gummy bears tossed somewhere behind the bell in the tower

     Ysolde’s ears would ring while he spoke of being roasted,
                             though he could never remember their names after –
                 it was always better to sanctify a memory
            than spit on it – she learned this the long way;

       she liked to tell him about the time an olive branch fell
           between herself and the door to the supermarket
                  it made her chuckle, and instead of being wasteful
               grew them in her garden;
                         the priests thought a miracle had occurred,
                               but it was just the soil she used

                they spent long weekends propped up on logs
            spit roasts over the fire of fish and fowl
                       crackles of fat and howling of her cat
                 hey, they were hungry too!

Prompt: Roasted