The Last Time I Breathed Fire

The last time I breathed fire,
I sat in his grandmother’s townhome
In Coyoacan
My knees pressed together
As my stomach buckled
As my lungs reached out their
Fingertips seizing any oxygen
To stop the burn
 
I sat in his grandmother’s living room
Admiring her below the knee skirt
And beige mules
That slapped the floor as she
Scraped a broom across the
Saltillo tile floor with a
Permanent layer of the desert air
Clinging to its surface
 
In Coyoacan
I watched the sky
Float with red ember and
A spectrum of gray ash
Saw the vibrant volcano
Popocatépetl filled with rage,
Spewing his disdain and anger
Across Mexico City
 
My knees pressed together
I clutched my stomach
Knowing your heartbeats were
Racing deep inside me
Praying to El Popo
That his wrath didn’t take
Your spirits up the air
To fly with the fire
 
As my stomach buckled
They raced me to the naturopath
He searched through tinctures
Found the right glass tubes
And blended together
Magic in a bottle
Flowers squeezed and pressed
Into droplets like dew
 
As my lungs reached out
I lifted my tongue
Flooding its soft underbelly with
Sugar, earthy liquid
Savoring rainbow meadows
Tasting the gentle warmth of sunshine
And the refreshing cool of misty rain
 
Fingertips collecting
The droplets escaping the
Corners of my parched lips
Shaking off the wet residue
As I sit, waiting
For the fire inside my chest,
The burning suffocation
To finally ease and lift
 
To stop the burn
I mistook for romantic love
I travelled 2250 miles of road
Alone, but not really,
To sit on your grandmother’s fabric couch
Just to watch us slowly
But inevitably
Go up in flames