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What happens when a plant breathes
smoke?1

Nicelle Davis | Poetry

As napalm was falling from my grandfather’s plane, my aunt
was lighting my mom on fire in New Mexico. My grandmother’s
hands, scarred instructions on how to put a baby out. My brother
used to burn lighter fluid off his palms to entertain neighbors.
A flame’s always seeking attention. My fire makes a wick of every-
thing. When gods gave it to us, they must have known we’d burn
the world down. A burn is deceptive, if it’s a good one (and by good,
I mean bad). Funny how candles change a room—how a first kiss
is rarely the last—how fire looks like a river when it pours into a house.


1Plant Question (title) by Brian Sonia-Wallace