Frances Greaney
Our father was a volcano
Our father was a volcano
not an Etna or a Vesuvius,
but he could shake
his own small piece of ground.
A furrowed brow, a sulphurous sneeze
an eruption, and we ran.
Later, when the lava flow had cooled
we returned to dance on it,
broke off brittle pieces
to carry away as souvenirs.
Our father was a volcano,
we tumbled on his slopes,
grazed our arms, our heads, our knees.
We dined on his bitter fruit,
rubbed them on our wounds,
stored some away for wine.
Sometimes. late at night, we climbed
to peer beyond the crater’s rim,
to gasp, uncomprehending,
at the misting rage,
the festered fear,
and the nostril-burning power within.
Our father was a volcano,
dead, but not extinct,
for me, he rumbles still.
Page(s) 34
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