by Elsa Valmidiano Rachel Reinhardt What little fires snake their way around my neck and across my collarbones where brunswick green tendrils of my mother’s ancestors bear grief and guerilla gunshots, and intersect into the starlight auburn lane of my father’s ancestors who cloak crimes of rape by revered great-uncles with cool repose. The formulas of my mother and father clap together, swirl, and then combust into this little fire that is my body, my hands, my head. Who am I