On the Third Night
(inspired by Robert Frost’s poem Fire and Ice)
There is something in the air, again.
And so they call upon us
In the hour where ash bleaches our eyelashes
and soot smudges our mouths.
With Pompeii under eyes and upper lips:
Volcanically, we follow them.
And above us, there is a roaring.
Helicopters blending the clouds
Like mango and milk
Into creamsicle skies
Dripping out, onto us, in sickly sweet globs
until there is only the empty cup full of stars.
And between us, there is a groaning.
And we reach cold and numbing fingertips
Into one another’s trembling throats
And we swallow those hard-wrung hands til’
We cough up the promises we’ve made
In rubber band balls.
And below us, there is a moaning
So we place our unearthed footsteps
On the rumbling of the soil.
Hope there’s enough rainfall:
of either fire or ice
To wash us all away.
Until there is nothing left, at all.
