Two thirds of my state is on fire
while I’m at the Tualatin Country Club
at the birthday of a survivor
his dumb luck

to have been spared
as he sits surrounded by Jews
once barred elsewhere but now
only sprinklers may hiss as they enter.

Then I kiss his cheek
still pink ninety-nine summers,
he whispers: you and I have business later
flirty words from a man who knew

death in the biblical sense
where they ate candles
cut into splinters
dreamt the conflagration of one more year

parched with wonder
regarding what destruction is natural or unnatural
while the waiter bends to ask about water
& I whisper thank you I am the fire.