my baby’s gonna have a loud mouth
like her namesake, katla, boiling lava lips
the two of us will scale those green spines
or ashy asphalt flumes

my baby’s gonna spit when she’s not fine
and fight the men twice her size
she’ll take them up the river
moonlit collarbone show, and pink wine

but my baby’s gonna be a strong guide
she’ll see the world, spreading magma riots,
smiling, soaked in smoke,
erupting all the time.

i'm sorry, dog, that i've been gone a lot
touching boys when i shouldn't be
crying when they're not in love with me

i've been working in the restaurant, too
in a white button up, speaking softly
though i've missed it here in this room

i've been absent for days
but you curl into me anyway and fall asleep,
breathing on my face

it felt ***** with you
the kitchen i grew up in
the abandoned victorian, alone
but the rotting bowl of fruit

it felt living with you
searching for the best view in town
(the passenger seat at 4am,
facing you)

it was so slow with you
stopping time when we cried and i clung,
suddenly left with the last five years
and the eleven-year-old bird clock