April 22, 2012

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


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