This is the mouth, filled with smoke, teeth struck on flint, tongue blistered,
words breaking into sparks that do not catch, kisses tasting of soot and sorrow.

This is the hand, carved into kindling, splinters blooming red along the lifeline,
palms trembling as if they remember fire, fingers cracked open like prayer.

This is the ribcage, bent into a prison, ghosts roosting where breath once lived,
wings rattling bone-bars, hollow percussion, an empty choir feathering the lungs.

This is the eye, waiting for fire, seeing only ash, burning inward,
replaying the blaze that never arrived, light devouring itself in secret.

This is the skin, parchment brittle, names written deep into scar and silence,
pores exhaling dust like smoke, every scar an elegy curling shut.

This is the spine, a question bent, vertebrae cracked like dry branches,
each one whispering why into the marrow, each one bowing lower under silence.

This is the heart, a matchbook struck, sulfur worn down to wound,
every spark dissolving before flame, every beat a friction that bruises itself.

This is the blood, blackened river, dragging its debris through narrow veins,
a drowned hymn humming in the marrow, a tide that refuses to rise again.

This is the lung, chimney of soot, exhalations lined with ash and ruin,
smoke curling back to the throat, breath itself returning to fire.

This is the body, brittle and waiting, stacked like wood against the dark,
its shadow already smoldering, watching, always waiting for the match.

---

Betty Stanton (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer who lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in various anthologies. She received her MFA from The University of Texas – El Paso and holds a doctorate in Educational Leadership.  She is currently on the editorial board of Ivo Review. @fadingbetty.bsky.social