she holds a torch.
strokes it with a gentle brush,
silky fingers waltzing through
the coarse splinters,
clingy spurs, hungry for the soft palm that meets them with a smile.
(hello, hello) they say
shining teeth on the tips of the nails
(hello, hello), and the splinters stab, (you know)
like little ants digging their teeth
into giants that run away
at the thought of their tiny legs
skittering across their pores.
so she held the torch, brushing at its creases,
the dirt defining the curves in her fingertips,
(they looked like deserts, and if you were a cell,
those curves would be sand dunes, the dust would be
nine feet thick, and your feet would sink as you,
a phagocyte, engulfed a pathogen, pleading for mercy,
slicing off its tiny head, [help, help], it would scream.)
She stroked the torch,
touching the deserts to her temples
leaving beaches near her eyes.
the torch wouldn't light
until she ate the fire.