Red-stained fingers match the
Taste of rust.
I wipe my mouth again.
The fire rises in my cheekbones
And descends upon my throat;
Lower sanctums, beware—
Forehead ripple lava pits,
Eyes like San Andreas.
The only way out is through
Sky blue inundation.
I drink.
Matron jar, round
And cool to the
Touch
Dripping life
From her hands
To mine.
Embers dwindle.
One last cough to push the
Smoke from my breath—
My ribs are paper bag empty.