The crown of it was fire: a stolen wish, this city of bridges valving the heart, ancient and scarred, tongues of stone, this haughty sister, matronly and jeweled, who straightened her skirts, looked me down in the eye. Girl, are you sure you’re ready to rise? Question mark of candles, waiting for breath. This vision, a pistil of wavery bloom, a man before me, the first refused: a bite off our plates, an outdoor café, the privilege to witness him, fierce and poor, thrust forth his heart, douse his body with oil, purse his lips and blow out tongues of flame. Utterance of desire and gasoline, a presage of future, some of it mine. In the distance, iron stippled with light.