Natural Disaster

She tremors like Mt. Saint Helens.

Her hair falls to ash in tufts easier to pluck

than daffodils. Out of frame I watch with viewer's

eyes her lava flow spill on to cities below

with each new shift of plates beneath earth's mantle.

My hands cradle the first casualty.

Survivors dangle in a white line-up

across gums my tongue can poke through. 

I catch her plump, burnt-red eyes weigh on mine

and for a moment forget she is my mother.

The aftershock harbors her first words:

"You asked me once why I used to wear those silly

hats and I told you they made me happy when I

was sick." The black earth cracks beneath her voice.

"I need your help bringing them out again."