human walks into inferno by D.S. Randol

9JUN21

Magma,

mother cooks a cake seething with sweat and teeth:

Sought out with dreams of American war heroes clashing with

Kim Sung-Il, and refrigerators concealing early man deep within

the vegetable drawer.

under a day’s worth of silt and tribal warfare,

God hides his son in the crater, in the oven.

That son is Jesus, that son is American, that son is

a fossil, a dove whom people mistake

for a chicken. We saw him in the flesh, we saw him in the opera.

He was breathing, and he was dancing. He begged to his believers, to not forget the art

of dance. And when he spoke, he bared his teeth, reminding them that they were not so

far from cannibalism as they may have thought. He tasted the cake.

He breathed, making a point of it, moving his ribbed and brown body as such

that the heat beamed off of it

and the people did not run, or hide,

but simply kept up their heads, and

waited, watching for the bombs to

slide and launch

off of his brow and legs,

begat from air and begetting air, finally landing and

creating land unto their heads and their

chests.

This is what we sing for, they insist.

To be made whole again from the pieces of what already was whole.

To be made fluid, as water is cool as stone. Listening to the fire, learning to speak like the fire,

like how water eats and dances in response.

We are water, we are the fire, we are the melting pot.

We are formed. The volcano is as the mouth of God, he speaks us into song, and closes us

again—the smile upon his upturned lips.

The song is different every time.

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D.S. Randol is driven by birds and trees, good music, and anything else with passion innate. He writes to measure a life and sleep a little better at night. Some interests include birdwatching, playing fighting games with varying success, and picking up trash. Feel free to follow him on Twitter @DSRandoL.