Slow Motion

“I move slow,” she says. “Give them plenty of warning.
Not like Fuego—boom, pyroclastic flow,
hot death faster than a horse could run.

I move slower than a man can walk. Got my eye
on the seashore. Getting there. Getting there.

Not to say it’s safe. You could fall onto lava and burn,
breathe toxic fumes or superheated steam, be hit by lava bombs,
but you'd have to work at it.”

She stretches out a hand, runs molten fingers
through roofs and walls, in slow motion.
In Guatemala, orange-clad relief workers

are lowering a coffin into a grave, one of their own
killed in the line of duty, in the work of rescue.
Loss is harder to measure than speed. Grief always feels

like slow motion.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside