excerpt from When the Fire Comes
Now my smile will not be washed pretty.
There is ash in my throat
from the last lie I lit.
Who shall I be now?
I’ve run out of clean faces to wear,
this skin hurts when I dream.
All my wings won’t fit in this room,
bones must be broken,
cries must be bundled in sheets,
a match will be struck in my sleep.
When the fire comes, who knows what will burn?