While the Volcano Waits

A Ghazal

You asked me to stay with the lava—my hands burned; I felt love and warmth from the undergrand people, but I am still unsure how to wait for you here. (Picture: Mount Sinabung, Indonesia, on 6 Oct. 2016, Wikimedia)

You said the roots would keep me safe beneath the ground—
I touched them: every root fed on a wound—
while the volcano waits

You call the lava love—do you still feel its burns?
not everything that burns wants me to stay—
while the volcano waits

The ruin here hasn’t finished speaking yet—
its broken gates still asking where their stolen stones went—
while the volcano waits

You told me rising is dangerous—the sky would drive me mad;
who benefits from burying the mad—
while the volcano waits?

I kept digging—now my hands are marked with oil—
I don’t know if I unearthed you—or helped them find us—
while the volcano touches.

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Genealogy note

I had “تحت الأرض / Taht Elard” by El Far3i and Eliane Correa on loop all last week. This ghazal came out of listening back to it: to its refrain, its buried beloved, its volcano, and the uneasy mercy of staying underground.