Spontaneous Combustion

Something copper stung in her mouth.
He asked to have a taste. It rolled
like bitter perfume on the tongue,
and the roots of his hair went sore and
angry; her fingers ran through and
strands pulled up like dying weeds
the moment fire catches up to drought.
The pink of her fingertips struck his scalp and
sparked, and flesh
flecked the breeze like cabbage loopers,
and for that moment they were happy;
the next, they were ash.