My mouth is weak, my finger red where a knife I washed slipped into it, one more scar. I can't explain why I need to hear trains whistle at crossings where cassia blooms, indolent day after day in the heat. Bees noisy in flowers force their way in. Passing cars toss blown leaves into air. I'm pitied for childlessness, cheap jewelry, wrinkled clothes. I always tell the same stories. Once I rode through the night with my father, car windows open. Every small town in Iowa was lit by sulfur, salts of antimony, spark and flame. Red rockets rose and burned. Why must anyone die? Miles of stars shot out of the rockets. Fire wheeled on the open horizon, quicksilver fountains and spumes.

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