Published in Poetry Magazine (March 2026 Issue)
The fragment of a dead volcano in my pocket
I walk to the end of endless frost.
Yesterday, a hand in my hand
but today only the struggle
of a tongue at the end of my fingertips
talking to stone.
In the distance, smoke rises and settles.
Ember under ash
a volcano speaking in the mouth
a molten current of words
a brilliant hell—
that is poetry
scratching, immortalizing
the winter of exile.