That knife’s still in my drawer.
The one we bought in that town three hours east of Reno.
We drove all night.
Tomorrow would be the desert moon,
the million mosquitoes,
the hot springs.
We took a walk there,
the next day, while
the chicken cooked over
the hot coals, under
the hot sun.
We took pictures of a foreign land —
craters and nuclear orange mold,
crusted layers of crystallized salt.
The water steamed,
touching it would mean burning.
Touching it was tempting.