The Girl who Burned

Inside her is a

hot brooding ball,

which irradiates her hollow places:

her palm, her armpit,

the red fire halos in the

web of her fingers.

Indeed, she is often

too hot to touch

in the fever of her sleep.

Awake, she is curling and

licking flames within her,

which spark out suddenly

where she tangles her black hair

around charged fingers.

Her beauty lies in this

way her strange soul

burns her body

to its final exhaustion,

this way she gathers up

all the fuel of the world

to  stoke her shimmering little life.

Perhaps this is really where

all light and movement dwell,

not in the sun,

but in the ones who die;

here in the depths of the stone,

here under the bright heel of a woman.

But then this mystery insists.

She, with hot hands,

who immolates herself,

who wears this luminous finery,

the skin of a girl,

only to cast it off,

a burnt out husk.

Does she find in this

infernal, cruel play,

a kind of joy,

an ecstasy?

 

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2013

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One thought on “The Girl who Burned

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