poem 137 of a poem a day for 2012 (NaPoWriMo25)

showering herself

she pours

herself the falling fire of Icarus

in a squeezebox recollection

that her memory

bellows with the smells 

she writes poems with

she writes

in natural disaster inks, she says

especially the rapidly oxidational colors

with their gyrational devils

in the slivered details

that the wind

keeps track of, she says

that way the seasons

know every

poured entrance of skin

from taut to aged

she sears

emotions in stretched recall

with accordion scars

that play all the uses

we used to have for limbs

she says we don't feel

the crawl past time

vacated by stars 

in the crackle and split skin

she says robber grooms

are turning the spit

to vine brides for sin

she smears

her face with these ashes

curling through each word

on the page of the poem

that might have been a tree

once outside her windowed home

she wings

she waxes

she melts

before any charred remains

roll each rise on a plain

in the distant look

around the bend

she is gaining entrance 

through the sense of rain

that may just be 

beginning again

EJR ©