As a child, I once held a chipmunk made out of lava and ash.
I would hold it sacredly and carefully.
I didn’t even know how it was made.
It was so cool actually, and I would clutch it, staring at it for hours-
Wondering, imagining its heat.
A delicate little white-blond girl,
Wondering if she would ever feel that kind of heat.
I imagined its insane, destructive beauty,
Imagined it pulsing, and coursing through my fingers,
I imagined that lava giving form all around me
to many ash chipmunks.
Right now, as then, I would press my lips on its smooth surface,
and feel the dichotomy
Between its ashy coolness and my own volcanic heat.
White hot lava flowing from my core
As the marbled outside gives way again
To the burning within
(Sometimes it comes out as anger
Or the craving for a smoke,
And sometimes it comes out
In just the way it comes out best –
Living spirit. Hot center. Marbled flower. )