She steps out of the sun—
skin a crackled and black desert desperate
for rain.
Flames lap like the proboscis searching—
not for the nectar because she has none.
But for her bone.
To turn the white to black and black to ash.
To chew and gnaw.
To slurp the marrow clean as it boils.
Her eyes are hollow—
not the vacant stare of painted glass
that pretends to sleep
when her head is tilted back by a toddler
pretending to be a mother—
but the one with the halo
of fire pulsing and breathing—
a monster fueled by her own,
by him.
He is amber liquid that makes her mean—
makes her clap with the back of hand
against bone and cheek.
The crack of skin to skin—
the split and red that blooms
like a canyon. Waiting for thunder
to break.
JKolasch
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