Her belly is a cold hearth
It sits deep and cavernous inside of her
It recalls warmer days with the ease of the dead–
the feckless indifference of the already finished
She stokes it with whiskey and memories of fire
when flames would catch reckless and grow higher and higher
Yet empty and dark and fallow it stays
So she sits, and she waits for something to catch
or blow her away like a column of ash in a breeze