vOLCANO 

That summer, all the fruit turned to rot somewhere between tongue and gut.

You were drawing nudes, you drew neural pathways and dissected hands.

I went to the mall six or seven times to prove I was still alive.

I ran disguised as myself wearing black gloves and carrying pepper spray.

I’m always stopping cars asking strangers for directions home. It’s always raining here.

I’m in Phoenix, I’m in Knoxville. I dream about beige hotels and free Netflix. I’m in Akron.

You claim you never sleep. Once I dreamed I fell but the sky and all his suns couldn’t wake you.

Now I understand what’s been bothering me.

As we exit through the gift shop, we witness an eruption of cats.

Laura Falsetti is a dentist who lives and works south of Seattle. She is also an emerging poet with work in Lunch Ticket, Sweet, and Cider Press Review, among other journals. A cat mom of four, she is also a hiker and lover of all things rain.