Celia’s Eruption

Day Twenty-Six of Thirty Days of Writing

Amanda DeNatale
Aug 24, 2017 · 1 min read

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.


)
Amanda DeNatale

Written by

Writer/Bartender/Junior Editor for F(r)iction/ MFA grad/ Hula hooper/Daydreamer/Adventurer

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