he refused to come down the mountain when the rocking started
so you should mourn the cats he loved, but don’t mourn Harry Randall Truman.
Truman talked out the side of his mouth,
said even if the god damn thing blew
it wouldn’t touch him through the timber mantle.
when the ground shook,
he dragged his mattress down the basement stairs
of the lodge he kept fifty years.
St. Helens couldn’t shake him free, so with proof of his love in the middle of May she exploded with the force of a planet, buried him and his animal children under a hundred and fifty feet of ash.
in a few decades Spirit Lake
retreated further up the slope
with rediscovered clarity
as if gathering to its source.
today the core pushes new volcanic rock
through its blasted summit,
like teeth coming into a crooked jaw.
