Sere bends the light
where no dew pearled
this morning
and won’t the next—

and the moon glides in the moist firmament 

    Then fire blisters
wood, and coal forms, and slag bakes
under the scalded drum
and the rain comes



The Arrival

Whatever it is,
hold it like the pope
is bleeding in Constantinople,
like Pompeii
in the hungry hours.

Vesuvius is flaking
and nobody cares.
Gather the smoke skirt
about you like a mantle.
Swaddled or horned,
carry your gift
up the molten flank

until your body, too, becomes a white cask
in the arms of constables and archaeologists.






Cassandra Farrin is a writer, adoptive parent, and editor. Her work appears or is forthcoming in CirqueFrontier JournalconcīsSweet Tree Review, and elsewhere. More about her and her writing can be found on her blog Ginger & Sage (ginger-and-sage.org).