So she says,
this is like my home-
in the smoke and thickness,
the bitterest taste.
“I remember in summer,
the way we couldn’t go out…”

I don’t know.

I think of the tallest trees,
the way we live on a fault
so all the roads and streets
are swelling/straining, always under pressure
until
asphalt cracks and tendrils creep over in the night.

I think of pale green stems hidden under roots,
the ginger growing bittersweet and heart shaped
over water and salamanders,
my feet in their chipped black polish.
The sneaky jungle cats on the ridges
when lights bloom like stars in the valley.