I am the bear
that hibernates
inside a cave, inside herself
full of rotting meat and sour juices.
If I were a berry I’d be black
and I would nestle deep inside
a prickly bush
aside Lake Sammamish to wait for you-
breach the thorns and pick me.
I am your constant rain.
I am May 1980.
Dear St. Helen:
You are a crater full of ash and dust—
all the rest just petrified logs.
So long winded.
You reached your boiling point.
I couldn’t leave my cave.
I hid. You exploded.
I am not a berry.
I am grey ash and residue—
old news.
I rest with the fog inside your crater.
I’ll let the rain wash away the flecks
of dust that cause your throat to burn.