As soon as she turned her head
she knew it was a mistake.
She tried to remember who gave the warning
but her memory has become brine.
The city flames on the horizon like a ship
sinking with her larder, the backyard beehive,
and the neighbour’s cat.
The pink peninsula of her tongue has stuck to her palate.
She would scream, but each cry crusts in her throat.
Her form is sculpture now,
paler than it has ever been,
and tears are crystals on her cheek.