You said bad men
were waiting inside
your mouth, which meant
a fire was catching.
We drove toward a cloud
of smoke that rose
above the city. In
the mirror, I saw the wide
belt strapped across
your chest, and on
the radio, men stormed
the gates of another
country. I do
love you, you said, looking
out. The window held
the sun flatly. I held
my breath. The brush
had not been cleared
in weeks, and the mountain
prepared to burn.