memoirs of a poet

A girl lays wastefully in a pool of her own fire,
Surrendering her limbs to the heat,
Whispering hot strength, folk tales of valiance.
Her head upon a burning tree stump,
She counts the rings,
Like the gunshot at the start of a race,
Flagging the truth—she was not always in flames.

Her red hair traces her shoulders, collarbones,
It no longer rises, dances.
She is prostrated upon the wood, 
Knees buried into the ash of her virtue,
Hands cupped like a beggar or a believer,
Neck bent, still pleading—
For a final look at the mess she has forged.