My dreams reply the garden has become an ocean of lava

a precinct of spewing tephra the rock like black honey folding

over again impossibly and yet on a shaky island

someone is standing surrounded by fire who says go without me.

So there is a sound in the house when I wake mice under the moon

my mother who cannot sleep halves a bright grapefruit whose feet whose toes

whose hands whose fingers whose ankles whose head she says are on fire.