Fire Boy, my brother made of flames and coals like his father,
shooting ignited arrows into the Taos sky with his recurve,
a rounded rib bent by breath.
Fire Boy, burning up our mother like oxygen, he is one body,
one lick of flame in a dusty bosque, ready to burn his name
into the landscape, scar his constellation onto the mountain.
When summer settles on us, lighting gas with a scratch of flint,
our laughter drifts out as smudged smoke over alfalfa
fields made purple with night. My mother and I raise our archer
and pluck splinters from our hearts.