Eyjafjallajökull

Eyjafjallajökull

We want to speak its language, to be included
among those who can listen to the fearsome tongue
without running from it. Lava spills out from land

like secrets, like obscenities. The rock is so hot it shifts
shape, borrows liquid’s elegance even as it sears
the air and clamps onto the ground. To speak about

it comfortably, we use numbers. See patterns in
its seizures. Spit out airport acronyms and link
them with times, our waiting, sighing implied.

The whole world is learning to pronounce
and spell Eyjafjallajökull, laughing at the
foreign objects rumbling in our mouths

like gravel crunching beneath car tires. The other
option--go wordless. For here in the heat and ice,
danger shimmers. An ember. A red tongue.