Photo by Daniel Tankersley
Newberry Lava Love
Lemon vodka on the lips, your huge hand
wrapped around my whole fist, hurdling
through forested slopes in my Jeep.
The pines end. Pocked rock starts.
Petrified lava flows from 7,000 years ago.
Tortured trees spiraling for sun.
We hike the hills, saying they’re beautiful
in their wreckage. But the dry brush leaves us
thirsty. The fallen husks of whispering pines
don’t know they’re ruined. One lone lemon-yellow
flower with roots too deep to excavate
lives through our drunk tumbling.
I take pictures of us in front of scoria craters,
and empty tubes where healthy trees used to grow.
Our own lava rock love—sharp, irregular,
swelling catastrophic—captured by photo flows,
our roots pixel-cemented. We lick up the sticky,
sugar-lemon when we kiss under white clouds,
guzzling love into our mouths,
so we can forget the harsh earth.
Kit Evans is a queer poet and writer from Oregon. He can often be found outside, lifting rocks in search of cool bugs. His poetry has appeared in The Dewdrop, Hiram Poetry Review, Vagabond City Lit, and Ghost City Press.
Share on