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.