Volcanic

By FIONA ZERBST

Risk and aftershock,
this love
that leaps desire.

I cannot turn
my face from you,
so ash will spill

on lids—
residual tears—
and flame will kiss my mouth.

I cannot turn,
and this is good.
I know, now,

that the waters
boil below
volcanic ash, and fire

can never really burn
out, but attaches to
the deeper heat

around the mess
of colder ash.
Reminding me

this love, though dead,
is element;
and we, though rational,

are pure catastrophe.

 

 

Fiona Zerbst has published four volumes of poetry: Parting Shots, the small zone, Time and Again, and Oleander.

Click here to purchase Issue 04

Volcanic

Related Posts

Washington Heights

November 2022 Poetry Feature: Anacaona Rocio Milagro

ANACAONA ROCIO MILAGRO
Because there weren’t any fireflies in the hood / as a child i imagined roaches were angels on a / mission. To save lives, they’d crawl into the mouths / of the chosen. Initially i found them disgusting. / They’d infest my Fruity Pebbles cereal. i’d pluck / them out

Image of the moon. Camera is focused on the moon against a pitch black background.

Klan Giant

TOMMYE BLOUNT
Look up here, the air is Aryan. The moon, / our white hood. Our life must loom large / above that which is darkened in our shadow. / A fate loomed long ago, ours // in the weft and warp of hems, / a lowered white curtain on this / re-coonstructed show

Black and white photo of a woman lying down in the grass.

Writing from the 2022 Outpost Fellows

STEFFAN TRIPLETT
Once again, I am at the whims of the weather. This must become a daily practice. In fear of things getting hotter, I’ve made myself too cold. Cold in a literal and figurative sense. I’ll spare you any false pretense: every move I make anticipates a climatic future.