A reflexive pivot then she caught the conflagration: orange and black, orange and black. Sand filled in around her feet on the path out from the city, meditating with her as she imagined her daughters and their babies screaming as they blistered, choked and died. She couldn’t take another step. The sand cooled into a glass quilt as tears washed the soot from her face then dried, and streamed again then dried. Her heart, an ingot of lead and brine, anchored her to a road that would’ve led her away from the wreckage of her kitchen — its grain and oils, her garden and friends; her whole life to that moment reduced to coals. This grief of hers, treason to a man who hid behind virgins. Men are cowards. Angels, no better.