There she wasin that lavender dress,in that room,in that apartment,turning aroundto answerhis fistpounding that doorin the middle of that daythat must’ve been a dayin August,the start of that seasonwhen all around them,all that could bechanged by violenceand violently changed,the hills and the valley,the canyons and the cliffstongue-kissedby the Santa Ana,burst into bright
seams of silver smoke,and though it wasunclear how he burstthrough that door,why her dress fellto that floorlike that flame and flashlashing the bedstrawand the sunflowersuntil the flowers benttheir heads from the sun,or what they sawin each other—who was whosehorse, rider, ride, reins, neckpulled, pulling, arching, archedback like the curvesof that wildfire’s hips,that scorched hourgrinding intothe next, there,
in that room,in that apartment—my mother and fatherbecame my mother and fatherand, the next spring,for the first time,brought me homethrough that…