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
