Celia’s Eruption
Day Twenty-Six of Thirty Days of Writing

The sun caressed her skin,
like mother and newborn baby,
the familiar taste of flour
in pumpkin cookies — but
when the leaves change,
the volcano will burst forth, and the sun
will slap her face, a betrayal,
her best friend fucking her boyfriend,
don’t trust that hoe over there,
her fragrant infusion
of cigarettes and perfume.
Celia was the blossoming rosebud,
in the trashcan. The clandestine light
of the void, the repulsive butterfly,
Joan Rivers tight-roping the edge
of the Golden Gate Bridge. If she jumps
off this bridge she might finally
be able to fly. The murmur of the
hummingbird’s wings. Celia soared
over the water, her arms all she needed,
but the lion’s crimson eyes linger
in the darkness. The thunder flutters
over the night. The smell of rain pelts
her face. A rock judges her. She grazes
the calloused wooden countertops.
The soft sunlight rests like a blanket
above her void.
