Here is a girl with a house in her eyes
or, what is left of it, the house no longer a house.
And here is the fire that looks like a mouth
that is trying to swallow too much—
early southern spring, the sky,
the girl in her worn out sun dress.
And here are the birds, circling the girl,
the girl who remembered too late
the kerosene lamp, the girl who thinks the birds
know the truth: it was you, it was you,
they caw. And here are the snakes
she didn’t know were underneath, even more vulgar
now that they’re dead, their fangs charred open.
Tomorrow, there is the girl sitting in the soot
but only until she remembers: snake
husks everywhere. She rises from the ruin
like a flame—the snakes, the snakes—
there is no telling which ashes are theirs.