we were not lucky

to have been born to tend the lava.

we were not lucky to have been born in the land of heat and danger. across the river are perfume trees. across the plains are valleys of flowers and lakes that shine in the sun. but all these for others. all heat for us.

out of the lava grow the berry trees. the branches are to thin to climb, and too sharp to ignore. thorns everywhere. in our hands in our hair. and lava below. but J can get to the berries. he's the smallest. he comes back with bowl-fulls. J gets the berries, i turn them into the salve. we need the salve in the land of heat and danger.

sometimes at sunset when the eyes of the tenders of the land of the perfume trees are filled with sunlight, we approach from the west. we raid the trees. J shakes the branches. we collect the petals and fill our pockets. we flee back to the west, back to the lava. the souls of our feet are black.

even in the trees and on the platform father built, the lava heats us from below. through the cracks between boards our skin blisters. the metal slide gets hot in the sun and our thighs scream. i sell the berries for crab apples.