liz humphries

we ambled along the
crunchy surfaces
of the hard lava.

the sun was late
we help bags of cameras
and flashlights

sulphur and steam
scratched the vog hazy
sky like signals

ropes and cones
directed us to the
molten pourings

Mauna Loa, Kilauea,
vents, to the sea, more
mileage for the Island

we couldn't see the
soft stone from deep
below once magma

for the sea was far
and the foot holds were
perilous, the air cold

we wore hiking boots
we wore short pants
we wore t-shirts

we wore windbreakers
around out middles but
the head from the nearing

lava was like the sun mid
day on a windless deck
on a windless summer day

covered in asphalt
covered in asphalt
covered in asphalt

a mid summer say
windless and sunny
covered in asphalt

we had seen petroglyph
we had seen where women
offered umbilical cords

this place has mana from
pele, the goddess of fire,
of this cauldron

I hid my face behind
the viewfinder of a nikon
people warned of splattering

i inched in backwards
i felt fingers on the backs:
my thighs, small of back

whirled around for the shot
a single shutter release
and then back

two pretty girls from the UK
stood a few feet away and I
became more daring for them

i was with my lover but two girls
from the UK -- i had to do it
to slip up the older man with them

the sun wavered then set
the red lava broke free
repeatedly and each time

elated gasp and then children
took rocks and stones and hurled
them into the fissures.

thunk and then nothing the
lava was not even close to
liquidity. Viscous Viscous Viscous

and then the fissure broke and fingers
flitters through bright neon red like
the sign for live nudes on bourbon

a little honey all that black
velvet and red neon, but
of itself: flamboyant extreme.

the hard crusty french bread
pahoe'hoe lava beneath our
feet hot like from an oven

a warning sign: the dangers of
sulphur -- the dangers of sudden
fissure, of death of maiming --

warnings to pregnant mothers
two british nannies i showed
off for and my girl and hot lava.

lava surfing consists of parking a car
walking 200 meters with a flashlight,
looking for a while as sluggish

viscous
viscous
viscous

hot hot hot hot lava lava lava
pahoe'hoe, a'a, pahoe'hoe, a'a
crunch brittle shell

and then its over and you can't find the
British nannies but you have your lover and
you share a torch (for each other)

get into the car and
drive off and then lie
as to how difficult it has been.

We rocketed that Clio from Norwich canon
Along the glistening fields buzzing
That little hacksaw engine through
Fizzing gear-throws.
Your right-hand drive on my left-hand mind
Left grinding notes at roundabouts.

We zipped, eating mouthfuls of sandwich,
Tuna, from your long Fingers.
The wind raced
As roundabouts grew quicker
And the sky threw dew
Onto flashing wiper blades.

We were in Summer-heat, that Winter.
Me, freshly free from another
Dog-house stay on Valentine's day,
With you, escaping to Cambridgeshire
From your student cell to relive
A regatta day at the Blue-Boar:

Dark and musty pub. I was dizzy
From wine from the bottle;
I stared, grabbed your hand,
And admitted desire.
You squirmed and said:
You're not behaving English.

The fields burned past us like the
Renault's petrol and I could see
Your delighted fear as I pushed
The sub-compact hard down meagre
Motorways. Pushing always harder
Just to hear your thrill, preferring
To keep moving so I could clasp
Your wriggling body.

The horse pastures reminded you
Of family outings and motor trips
But they shall forever remind me
Of your crinkled lines of happiness
And the dollops of mayonnaise
I licked from your fingers;
The curve of your hip in the seat
And your warnings to be nice to
Our Little Car.

My heart raced the engine
As the glazed asphalt skimmed tyres,
And, worn from savage
Down-shifts, we stopped at that
Sterile convenience store
(you for the loo and me for
Sugary-sweet drinks.)

We savoured those Cokes,
Sipping the biting bubbles and
You cursed my clutch when the can,
Perched on the dash, fell and spewed
Its molasses onto your virgin jeans.
(Why the dash?, I asked, you know
I can't drive your cars.)

Our journey ended in the muddled
Dizziness of Cambridge, its one-way
Streets and complicated thoroughfares
Favoured the locals. The green and blue
Tin signs beckoned us along damp
Brownstones, past jutting spires
Of King's College and the worn wood façades
of Antique bookshops.

Students, slumped in tweeds,
Peddled three-speeds that blocked
Trickling traffic ways. Heady scholarship
Humbled and loaned us
The intent look of intellectuals
As we pondered what culture we'd consume
Before we consumed each other
In a room at the Cambridge Hotel.

The rockets shined in your
Face and I knew it was
December 31st a plane
strapped into the gate
groaned its desire to fly.
The crying didn't start
Until we understood the
sucking void of miles
between.

The flapping folds of a balloon filled in
Brittle morning. The furnace empties in flame,
air rippling light buoyant fabrics until the
Sky opens and lifts her palm, the balloon
Resting gently on the fingers, until
Engorged fabric straightens and fills and
Then, finally taut and rouge, lifts and
Carries you like you carry bird cages
From here to there, carefully balancing to
Not swing the cage, but giving the captive bird
Flight in those confines.

Dowdy in that red-hooded sweatshirt,
You are bright and soft like the binding
Covering loose interpretations in
Cloth.