Wednesday, July 03, 2013


Photography of Iceland's volcanic rivers by Andre Ermolaev

I came across a photograph today,
aerial Iceland, ash, river, sea.
It took hold like images sometimes do.
Appearing on the dark inside
of my eyelids, a voice
familiar yet cool and wide,
drawing me to things cobalt or cream; 
flapping on the periphery:
a volcano, a road,
a slow s-curve. 
It partnered with Antartica
seen from space. 
Glowing in my mind
like a bulb I hadn't meant to look at directly
or for so long.

Antartica seen from space

My children are asleep, 
my husband also on the coral-colored couch. 
Tomorrow is the Fourth of July
and outside I hear explosions
I would otherwise think
was thunder. It could be thunder.
But without rain or electricity battering
the curtains, I remember tomorrow.
 This is Manhattan,
not some sleepy suburb with teenage boys
with illegal fireworks in the empty lot
along the river. 
Who here is already celebrating
without a host of police swooping in?

Rows of windows looking 
at nearly every space; nothing empty,
nothing left unseen. 
My son is restless
in his sleep, and calls words I cannot
make out. Like the blue shadows
of volcanoes or continents
surrounded by sea.
I close my eyes.
A bloodless hawk,
steely drone or satellite, shutter
snapping. I see the slow drift
of colors over land, soft
and warm, a shape

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