By Susana H. Case

And among the bits of leftover lava
that nip at her feet because she didn’t heed
instructions to wear enclosed shoes,
she secretly scatters the ashes of her mother—
illicit without permit—who always loved
vacations in Sicily. The wind, sharp as slag,
throws itself against skin, and it makes people
swarm inside the restaurant to keep warm,
while others swallow the merciless cold,
crouch down to touch the grey and brown
ground at the craters’ edges, admire the flows,
hoping for a fumarole. At night, Etna spews
flames and gas. The remains of the mother
not yet blown away by wind are soon
under a new layer of volcanic ash—
like any artist, Etna’s editing her work.