With a metallic

tongue and

scarred eyes

she lies

in a bed of charcoal,

breathing

in

the rust-tinted

walls until

they collapse -

and the lingering

scent

of pollen,

golden liquid dust,

she imagines

pregnant skies

like ripe oranges

and the flames that burn

her mind,

the only place

that takes her

afar

to spring,

the pollen, and

hot, yellow air,

the sun -

and she

smiles like

melting

aluminium, for

trapped is

no unfree;

even ashes

once were

fire