[heat]

There is heat here, in this little belly. The red cheeks, the rosy skin. The sun shines down and reveals all. I'm afraid of the weather changing. It's not like it was when I was a kid. When I used baby oil on my skin to soak in the sun. It's all I can do to put a hat on my son's head. I want him to be able to brown, to tan, to be warmed by the rays of that big, brotherly star above. In our frenzy to own, eat, devour and become everything we will perhaps leave nothing behind. As the season changes, as the nerves in my arms and hands tingle, as the pie cools and the teeth come in, heat. Spark. Tapas. Food. Fire. Discipline. The lines between blur. The cold hard facts of the light at the end, the dance. My son's fiery bursts, his small fists, his nails on my skin. If I can't take it, I'll have to step out of the kitchen.