Fire

When the taco truck's tires were burning I had wanted to cry. Smothered in stacks of smoke they tell you to crawl on the floor AWAY from the heat. We couldn't deadpan after the yellow body suits because our tongues stuck to the ribs on the roofs of our mouths. I wanted to scream or eat. Black smoke plums up and billows from flaming roots. My brother gave my phoenix pendant to my father. There should have been something for my teeth. When babies are in danger they can sense their mothers shooting secret screeches into the sky and the babies know to chase the mother whimpers. The metal wrapped and burned around the diced beefsteak tomatoes. Preparation is a sort of incarceration. Sudden incineration. Protection. My gums itched dryly in the dust but I could not scratch them. Heat rises. Your palms sense the surface heat of potentially engulfed doors. I cradled my arms in my hands. Roswell happened. People die. Tuve hambre ese día pero yo no lloré.