Washington

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—

Starched bones and

  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.