surface (volcanoes and the other side of gone) pt. 2
“But I'd like to be coming home to her”—
was it rising up through the ash-filled lake
that left his lips dry and tasting of gone?
or was it the sky-blackening eruption itself
raining down like angry grey snowflakes?
how could he possibly lick that taste
bitter and hard and distant from his lips?
how could he shake the ring of soot
from his ears and cowl-darkened eyes?
the photograph was small and digital
she smiled lying in a chair on the beach
with sunglasses masking her eyes
his heart twisted from her bronze skin
the ring of her arm tattoo barely seen
and the flesh-colored bathing suit top
against a blue towel, sand, and ocean
though he was not on the other side
of that camera or the rest of her life
the surface of things spoken done and lost
and beneath it all boiled the heart of volcanoes
unlike mountains waving happiness on the horizon
singing songs of resurrection and healing and repair
and while others have written it and sung it sweetly
where ever she breathed was the only home he wanted
what then was on the other side of gone?
in photographs you cannot hear the ocean. . .