Smoke passes under the kitchen curtains—my body. 
My mood. A ring of tar won’t scrub from this mug. Water, water 
scorched out of bark black as a wick bringing amber and chalk 
light, an orange torch coming for the animal under my house. 
Under my house, no cavern can hold you alive 
forever: and nervous, your creator is humming. I do not believe 
in your concrete heaven, my animal of Los Alamos, my animal 
exhaling threads of toxic floss that needle my lungs. 
Pilots training above me in the desert air earned silver 
bomb rings. Red fins, metallic tip. Tinnitus, piccolo pitch, 
crest of a county-wide siren—my ears are splitting. 
I’m not sick yet. But the pink land covers you 
like an infection. I shovel sand over you, 
in my mind. In my mind, you are dragging my body 
to the fire, bruises printing my arms. I’m in my mind. 
This is my mind. Get me away from the blood center 
of a hibiscus. Get me away from the pure 
charm of a bell. Everything is burning. This isn’t hell.