We’re messing around in the cemetery again, Billy and me, because the night is hotter than a coffin but cooler here in this patch of grass, gravestones rising like little skyscrapers around us, a small city of burned babies from some long-ago orphanage fire. Billy’s got a condom, tells me it’ll be okay, his breath fast and faster, raw with tequila, and when he rolls me over I’m staring into the fire of Orion’s belt, thinking of fire and a prison of cribs, the dark cake of sky, its candle of stars a blaze of babies who live on.
