—April 30, 2020, Kilauea erupts
The earth revolts. Naturally, we shudder
at the gurney, the frothy volcano
and the ice cream truck that stores
black bags sheeting the city
like cooled lava. We don’t have
the time to make it all green again,
to save the unceremoniously dead
by no god or man or ideas of chosen.
My children are no more important
to you than yours are to me,
and that’s how it starts – the weighted
blanket that keeps thunderstorms
from terrorizing our nerves – but
the mind is lightning scarred.
Your child’s skin is smooth as obsidian
so you press against their chest
and count until you remember something
like differences in weather and climate.
