Spontaneous Combustion

Heat waves wriggle, invisible snakes on the gray line
That becomes the border between sky and crimping dust
On my back, facing upward into that empty blue
The world swells with its convex curve, and I feel I am on the brink of it
The earth is spinning much too quickly
“Death Valley: Heartland of America ”
A mouse trap, tourist trap, my own personal death trap

My lips are cracked into spidery flowers of red blood and chapped skin
They are becoming tiny replicas of the earthen veins beneath me
The sun demands my moisture, and I can do nothing to stop her from taking it
She quenches her thirst with salty gulps
My sweat, my spittle, my blood, even the teardrops in my eyes
Depart me in minuscule droplets, beckoning me goodbye
Grab and strain as I might, I cannot call them back

My blood is thickening
A delicious soup I am becoming, cooked just right at 120 for a day and a half
My skin, as red as a roast pig, pulses with a heartbeat that is not its own, not anymore
Steam carries off of me in waves, and suddenly–
I ignite; I become a bundle of roses, cradled in the softness of their gassy petals
I smile as the crackle rises to my neck, as my lips peel back, as hair coils away like incense
Underneath the flames, I see the portrait of something else forming
There, in the embers that used to be my ribcage, is that not an elegant shape?
Between the coils of intestine, could that be a black eye that stares back at me?

I smolder beneath the dying sun, a ruin of charcoal and wasted carbon
From where it was nestled against the cup of my pelvis
A beaky head on a slender neck arises
She is the color of poppies, the orange of alarm
Her shrill cry burns in the night
The phoenix delicately tiptoes between my ribs, peering inquisitively into the holes in my skull
Until she alights, wings neon in hot night air