by Elaina Mercatoris
You became rock when you stopped moving.
You thought when you were done, This must be
how God felt the third day; but it wasn’t a flesh,
I-just-created-earth feeling. You couldn’t forget
how you slid over the ground in bubbling rivers,
ordering everything before you to lie down and beg.
Often now your mouth feels like the dirt stuck
in the bottom of a clay pot. If only you could open
your mouth, the sky could feed you fire. It would feel
as though you were being stabbed by small needles.
You miss life inside the volcano. You remember
too often how it felt to burn under the surface
before God shot you out and waited for you to harden.