Volcanic

Risk and aftershock,
this love
that leaps desire.

I cannot turn
my face from you,
so ash will spill

on lids—
residual tears—
and flame will kiss my mouth.

I cannot turn,
and this is good.
I know, now,

that the waters
boil below
volcanic ash, and fire

can never really burn
out, but attaches to
the deeper heat

around the mess
of colder ash.
Reminding me

this love, though dead,
is element;
and we, though rational,

are pure catastrophe.

Fiona Zerbst has published four volumes of poetry: Parting Shots, the small zone, Time and Again, and Oleander.