The Core

 

There is a heaviness to my hands;

            pulled flush with the countertop

                                    or, palms arched over

            a keyboard, fingertips cocked,

            itching for some combustion.

 

Let me tell you about the man that earth

                        swallowed.

                                    He was mixed

                                                with sediment

             and minerals before his time.

 

He ingested dirt, blended with the residuals

             of everything that lived

             before. He choked on the fragments

                                    until his face

                                    turned purple

 

and putrified. After thousands of years

                                    of compression and heat

             his pupils were pressed

                        into obsidian — volcanic mirrors

waiting to witness the evolution of all things.

 

Megannums went by and nothing was seen.

                        His eyes hugged so tightly

             to the rocks around them that one day

             they compressed into a hot, pulsating

             core, churning for everything else.

 

My fingers slumber over the keys.

 

Eunoia Review, 2020