November 24, 2009

Black Maps

by Renae Andruse

If you took my father’s lava
out of my veins
I’d be charred,
more barren than Sarah
or her God.

Icarus fell from his advice
like droplets from a leaky sink—
and for the next hour,
we couldn’t see for the fog.

His hazel eyes cried ink
when he discovered
my volcanoes had been awoken
from dormancy by a boy
slightly paler than ebony—

my lover is quartz

but my first love was lava.
And they say,
in voices shriller than steam,

that you never forget your first taste
Of fire.


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