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
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.
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.