REIGN OF ASH

The volcano dome collapses, a sudden cloud, and night is hyphenated.
A rain of black ash and all of the stars drop from sight in bundles
As if the village witch placed her dark hat over the mountain changing everything.

The people come out of their homes and stand on their verandas,
A people of the long knife and volcanic dust,
Skin hard with ash, hair ash-poisoned, sweat ash stew.

Spirits roam the roads and pathways, find life in the old ones,
The villages’ simple centers crowded into the hills,
And welcome all of the voices from the dead.

This is one of those nights you never dream,
The sky not on fire, but burning.
An orange cantaloupe moon. Nosebleeds and diarrhea.

Later island rescue comes with breathing masks,
A church opens its doors early to pray for rain,
Goats come from their hiding places to shake themselves free.

All day dust clouds landscape and window.
The mountain sacrifices more of itself to lahars and spirit people.
Everything, every leaf, every iguana, every ghost wrapped in ash, breaths in, breaths out,

Waits.

Michael Brownstein