Orange flashes through the hole where the windshield used to be.
A splatter of volcanic splotches, like drops of scorched milk,

sears into the Pompeii of his cheeks. Days later, he dreams his parents
are part snake, so he might writhe free of this charred translucence.

Doctors compact a chip from sashimi-thin slices of gut, twine and dye
ruby lips from forearm slivers. And voila: a face. He has nightmares

of a crowded lunchtime street, a gust of wind lifting
his new face away, like a silk tissue, hand reaching up,

people gawking at the hooks dangling from his scalp, arteries
flailing like tassels. I am the barbecued man, here to cook you alive.

I will hold you to the lit coals that are my eyes, and hurl your prayers
into the furnace of my mouth, where smoulder is a verb, adjective, noun.