Pele

A volcanic divergence
Distinct shadows contrast to
Blinding light as
Kilauea licks her lips,
Clears her throat like an MGM Lion,
Growls like a dirty guitar.

Magma bubbles burst—
Erupt in glowing fountains,
Pele’s dismembered liquid limbs
Falling into salt waters,
Clutching molten land mass—
Really, any solid territory—
With smoldering blood-red fingernails,
Embers that boil, bake, or brand
Whatever—whoever—
Stands in her path.

Pele’s punctured palace
Proudly ruptures eardrums,
Roars with the fury of
Collapsing calderas, as the
Hawaiian cataclysmic flow advances
Like Krakatoa, West (not East) of Java.