‘Volcanoes’ by Jo Burns

For the girl in seat 15b

You fly to the lover of all lovers in Mexico City
and meet his semi-circle of friends (one famous) –
a flutter of artists, an avant-garde Rivera.

And you’re on a list for an opening soirée
of bejazzelled skulls as Damien’s in town.
Turns out it’s the day you fly home.

You dig the internet with nails to change that flight.
To no avail. You’re not a Hirst fan, but Ojala!
It was an excuse for one more night together.

Wrung dry that night in the window seat, your head’s sore,
diamonds are scored out of your bloodshot eyes.
Two pieces of news you didn’t know before

now concern you more than him. Firstly, she’d called,
then called him out. He turned out married, a father on top.
It turned out you didn’t want a sidekick part.

Secondly, past Iceland the volcano of volcanoes
with the mother of all names draws a veto to maybes,
regrets, backtracking or boomerang plans.

Popocatapetl’s icy wife pelts ash at your back,
hissing then pulsing in furied Morse code
She needs him. Go home. Stay away. Stay home.

From issue #6: spring/summer 2018

About the Author
Born in Northern Ireland in 1976, Jo Burns now lives in Germany. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Interpreter’s House, Southword, Acumen, Oxford Poetry, Poetry Salzburg Review and The Ogham Stone. She has been shortlisted for the Strokestown International Poetry Prize and her debut pamphlet, Circling for Gods, was published by Eyewear.