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Unlikely Dixieland smokes
the corner of Galesteo
and San Francisco. The Santa Fe
Chili Peppers, improbable fusion:
self-professed Hawaiian pimp on drums,
attorney on cornet, professor playing reeds.
Dentist and sculptor, banjo, trombone, harmonica, bass.
A controlled burn
out of control.
A forest dried to touchwood.
The Cerro Grande fire plays too hot
in Los Alamos, a town built for destruction.
Insurance adjusters, the natural
outcome, drink jalepeno
martinis, buy Virgin Marys for the smoldering
songstress. Couples rub together
like dry sticks. Evangelo is framed
on the wall wearing a World War II
helmet on the cover of Life.
Tending bar alone, his son consumes
pinons by the fistful. The artist is drawn
off the street to a front table, drinks draft
after draft. The poet pretends to study her ashes
until the ice manufacturer, happy about fueling
the firefighters, asks her
to dance. He raises his sunburned
hand to her cheek, fingers slightly curled
and says, "Look at you. You just glow."
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