by Catherine Roberts Lazar Gugleta When we kiss, I fill the holes in his teeth with my tongue, open my eyes while his green ones stay closed, see the discount-stickered candle burning steady on his coffee table and I’m there, in the backyard watching Dad set fire to the I’m-leaving-you-note and satin dresses and g-strings and coupons and souvenir dish towels — rip-crack-whoosh — the scarves of fire groping at my mother’s things making my chest flicker and my fingertips prickl