Beneath bandages,
her arm is lit
by night sky criss cross
of rocket trails.
Each explosion
drums her chest,
less regular but stronger
than a beating heart.
Eyes agleam,
razor edged, her gaze
slits heaven's dermis:
stars drip silver ichor.
On our way home,
we eat spud-u-like.
She waves a butter blooded knife
and talks fireworks.
