a woman
with hair turning
black, like soil
after it burns,
to gray like clouds
forming as fields,
mountains, and cities
burn, taking up
the entire sky.
I do not have circles,
those light pink
areolae my children bit
after they exhausted
milk contained
under that surface.
I am not a mother
somehow still
yearning for that bite.
I am not
a nightmare
like the one I awoke
from this morning
where we all burned
to ash: the earth
responded with more fire;
the sky responded
by turning black
but not producing rain,
letting the fire burn
until it burned itself out.
I am not a dream,
but maybe in one:
a faraway shore
and forest are ablaze,
but not where I live.
You see that ring
around the moon?
That is me,
waiting on the sun
to burn me down.