It is when I light my incense that I realize I am prone to self-destruction. The fire rises like a jinn from the head of the match, hungry for my middle, my hearth. I raise it to make contact with the incense stick and shake off the excess. The hot head of the match slips down between my thumb and forefinger, and I wince. I wonder about the metaphysics of fire and gold, both an exercise in prestidigitation. Sleight of hand, ankti, mala, how we slip through them. Faithless magic in which I trust: I beautify (protect) my wrists with nanu’s churi (remember Anaïs, who says it is feminine to be oblique, opulence therefore a means for safeguarding, shielding, preservation, etc), but they could not stop the smoke from burrowing in. Mesmerized and against eco logic, I welcome it, my body a jewel casket. The trinkets: shapes, fish hooks, Portuguese man o’ war, paisley, my stream of consciousness, armageddon. It is too easy for me to believe I was born from this smoldering, the qareen self showing and kicking against flesh. My body a lifelong pregnancy for the alternate self. Sometimes she emerges (compare smoke pattern to curl pattern), and I confirm my worship.