Fire Woman

Mildew grew on each surface
She caressed with greasy half-digits
—arms impressed with patterns 
like bike tracks frantically painted 
on fresh asphalt.

Bathing her was a balancing act
—an inundation of remarks
of no consequence. Contrived
complements 
against surreptitious cringes
against the layered texture
of terry on stinking skin grafts.

I studied her morphine-driven 
smiles
and careening movements
as I brushed through scabs
and concrete swimming through
matted hair
like dreaming baby birds in their aerie.

To abate the violent chirping
sounded upon waking
I spoon-fed her pudding
and placed ice pack kisses 
on her kerosene thighs.
I adorned her with crowns of silk 
hydrangeas.
I loved her in saccharine notes 
slipped into her stained canvas bags.
I hoped I would be her talisman.