Casey Rocheteau

The Iago Sparrow and Mt. Vesuvius

The sun rose in the distance
Morning quiet, bread baking
hair braided, water bearing
human in its ordinary, the day
just morning, unkempt in some corners
while the boil in the hot womb
of planet shoved its way forward
rapid rush of blistering magma.

The glory of the baobab shape.
The silence of the banyan.
The people of Pompeii rooted like trees
frozen as pillars of salt
but a gushing projectile of Earthguts.
A birth of mayhem.

Centuries later,
as a child, you were lost
in these same streets roaming
as is your wont; my blood
carries the tide of whalers,
my bones are hollow birdthings
prepared for flight always,
and you carved scenes of
the petrified city into them.

As a man, your hands reached
for a fistful of my hair
and you kissed me,
punctured my train of thought
for months, volcanic.
Every morning since
has been ominous in its beauty,
each new dawn arising
with a quickening sulfuric promise.

Pluck me from flight again
just so I might hear
the tempest inside you.

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