- Seneca Basoalto
The Volcano versus The Sad Man
He undressed the flames that built nests atop his shoulders,
father volcano, a misshapen pupil leaking a reflection of tulips positioned
against the sunken part of a mattress, across from the window is a scene
filled with science, the DNA of a sad man & his last words — a stolen life
whose pores bled plums and a discourse for piety — forever unsure,
surrendered to doubt, struck by the syringe of his girl’s other lover / me
and the sad man are alone now in a dream, but we both still wonder if the
volcano can see us? He memorized these valleys and the gravel roads I run
down in hopes of finding you waiting inside an old farmhouse — so I think
he knows where I will be, handsy and with a baby, asleep as he stalks my
memory of the worst thing he ever did, of which I did not ask, only the
volcano knows why he killed the sad man / back in the bedroom he is
naked of his fire, but still carries a spark inside his flat fingertips for when
he touches me, because I cannot leave him, or the room, if I am made of ash —
and if those I love he's turned back into stardust.