The summer after eighth grade I started
wearing my hair differently, up in a bun
instead of a ponytail, because that was
the year I started remembering the rules
of laboratory procedure. You didn’t, kept
wearing your long sleeves next to the
Bunsen burner, even when I said you’d
catch fire, because you were all too
excited about its false sentience. You always
were, eyes tracing the bobbing flame, and
inhaling the smoke trail after it died because
it reminded you of rain clouds in summer.
You always liked the concept of cloud cover,
and I never doubted you, or your hands
flickering, moving in shadow jumps, without
warning otherwise, even when you
took my hand in yours and thrust them both
into the pitcher of ice water during that lab
in sixth grade, when we were conducting
research on whether or not the absence of heat
stimulated mountain climbers to move faster
so that their bodies didn’t shut down or collapse.
I pictured burning in reverse, the cold eating
your skin, your fingers, until the blood in you
would boil like liquid candle fire, the same way
that running your hands under the hottest setting
of the sink turned the water cloudy with heat
that felt cold. Your hands knew more than
shadow jumps, knew how to stay cold all the time,
to stimulate the fire that kept you burning,
kept you going. I remember my hand trembling
in the absence of warmth, remember wishing for a
fire, for once in the laboratory, wishing for a spark
to creep through my veins, and bring back a
semblance of life to my fingers. Instead,
I wrote in my notes that the absence of heat
did stimulate more activity, but only noticeably more
if they were used to adapting to begin with.