poetry

volcán

volcán

crowned by a
misleading white mop of icy
bangs lulling you into thinking its heart
has long gone cold and the fiery veins slipped into senescence
but you can’t blot out its sleek steep black cindered sides perfectly sloped
with that extra-regular cone no other peaks take, like the first time I watched
a grey whale spout – exactly the same simple shape as a kindergartener’s drawing

for years (generations) it towers there
quietly, a presence to greet as you go about life
until one day
it can’t go on living this lie
the tension’s unbearable
rivulets of sweat stain its snow
it shakes with the knowledge of what it is
and what it will do
and then people will say
without warning
a testament to how little attention they’ve paid
and how volcanoes talk

poetry

walking with you

walking with you

I like walking with you
talking about the plots of our books
and my grumbling knees
while the sun burns down on us
and we take in lava and snow
and avoid massive flies
(while we also avoid complaining
about massive flies)
and plan out which bebidas frias
we will request from Café Thomas
at the end
oh yes
there are so many things
I’ve liked today
but the most refreshing of all
is walking with
you three boys

someday probably all we’ll remember is how
we went up the side of that pointy volcano
in Chile one time –
that was a good day –
but for right now
while it’s all still fresh and textured
and I can see the horses on the trail
and the abandoned hut on the slope
and how I cut the switchbacks
and how you didn’t want to meet the Americans,
while I still know why it was a good day,
I’m going to put some of it down right here,
knowing we’ll likely never go back

poetry

Llanquihue

Llanquihue

in the postcard-perfect panorama
surrounded by white peaks
that sometimes glow red
all is well –
grebes dive
and the mist does not descend –
at least
not right now

poetry

Tronador

Tronador

who knows what else
lies on the horizon
when a big white bulk
with a restless fiery heart
goes neatly undetected
for four sprawling days?

we miss so much
of all that is
including the storm clouds
hovering over
the beloved’s head

poetry

volcano

volcano

we land creatures
move our eyes
across the earth’s
folds and dimples
taking in texture
thinking we know
where we are

meanwhile
its ponderous girth
squats sumo-style;
a loincloth of
white cloud severs
the cone from
our lived world

it’s only when
we remember and
look up beyond
where we expected
that we see