Mom said the woman in the oven wouldn’t move so she turned it on. The woman wouldn’t talk. She chewed on pizza crust. Mom turned the oven on cause she thought that would get the woman to move out of the oven. The women didn’t look upset that mom was trying to cook her. The woman rolled over and pressed her cheek against my cheek. We were cheek to cheek and the woman let me wrap my arms around her body as if I were her daughter. The woman let me enter her womb and call her mother. While we were on fire. I didn’t say a thing to the woman because she understood sign language. Tongues. Mom didn’t find our relationship funny. Mom didn’t even care to ask if we wanted something to eat or drink in the sweltering oven. When mom turned the kitchen light off the oven froze. The oven turned into something like a whale’s tummy, but colder. I’ve never been inside a whale but it got so cold I felt the opposite of flamenco. I felt safe. Solid underneath the woman’s nose hairs. The woman called the rocks and the rocks waged war against mom. The moon? The woman turned into a rocking chair and the rocking chair turned into mom. In the corner of the oven, Mom rested her back against the charred wall and pulled her knees up to her chin. She was on fire and I couldn’t put her out. No matter how fast I swam I couldn’t reach the flame.