Everything. Everything is
burning, quiver and bow.
All things coral or pink,
held in a box with a fan on top.
Even the silk kimono is burning,
two cranes preening at the hem.
The shamisen, its body up in flames
even as the plucked note quarters,
even as a hand strums the belly.
And my fingers are burning, my lips.
Even the thought that puckers the lips,
burning, all burning. The pout, the flush,
twisted ankle, knee where fluid once
collected. Parched, now ash. Burnt,
hot white. White as the salt flats,
white as the last breath taken.