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| 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
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.
a volcano, a road,
a slow s-curve.
It partnered with Antartica
seen from space.
seen from space.
Glowing in my mind
like a bulb I hadn't meant to look at directly
like a bulb I hadn't meant to look at directly
or for so long.
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| 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
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
not some sleepy suburb with teenage boys
with illegal fireworks in the empty lot
along the river.
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
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.
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
familiar.
