fire
I am at work, across from me is a three panel painting. a woman with her back turned. against the world, against the gaze, she's defiant. she was painted by a man today more than ever I see men around me and I feel distrust. the painting is hung slightly crooked. I'm the one who plotted the nail marks
my hometown is close to being on fire again. my childhood friend's street just got evacuated. when was the last time we spoke? each time the fires come, I wonder when it will be us. when everything we built will turn to dust. fire is indifferent, change is indifferent. we stoke the coals and it tumbles out of our control. in me is the urge to seek out everyone I've ever loved and trusted and hug them tight and tell them I've missed them and eat dinner together.
my hometown is almost on fire again. the wind is whipping the flames up, taller than any tree or house. they turn the sunset into that beautiful hazy pink-purple, and at night, light up the sky like a spilled vein of gold on the jagged peaks, such jagged peaks.
I had a busy day at the art gallery. I spoke to a group of high schoolers about chicano artwork and I felt possessed and out of breath. I wanted to give them everything I've got. I was their age when the mountains were on fire the first time. when the world first fell apart for me. I used to have these images of fallen shooting stars landing in the riverbed. I never got to the part where the fire spreads.