The Yellowstone Caldera
She said let’s start a fire and so we did.
Now we run around looking for tools to exhaust the flames.
Those tools don’t exist.
They determined our love was being stored below Yellowstone,
one of the planet’s greatest time bombs
and all I can think is…
Those tools don’t exist
and we can’t stop this eruption.
Hurricanes and Constellations
My mind is a hurricane
loaded with atom bombs.
She said that she loved me
but was having trouble weathering my storm.
I tried explaining this had been raging
since my inception but her face was a void.
It was all darkness and no stars. Imagine the sky that way
and me attempting to navigate a Universe free of
Some weather patterns are meant to fizzle.
Mine will always drop destruction.
Hugging The Curves To Your Sunrise
I have determined
all of the many ways to your moans.
I’ve perfected the turns and learned the stops.
I know the shortcuts to your arms wrapped around me
and I know the long ways to cruising into your hands clinching pillows.
I know when to take the high road and when to take the low road.
I know what kind of fast car you want drifting along the curves.
I’m not delusional enough to ever think I built them
or that I laid the foundation for the concrete and the directions and the destination.
I know I wasn’t the first car here.
But I do know your backroads, your freeways, your highways, dirtroads and bridges
and no one can navigate them like me.
No one will ever shift into high gear and witness your sunrise coming over the horizon,
like I can.
Sarah Frances Moran is a stick-a-love-poem-in-your-back-pocket kind of poet. She thinks Chihuahuas should rule the world and prefers their company to people 90% of the time. Her work has most recently appeared or is upcoming in Rust+Moth, Maudlin House, Blackheart Magazine, Red Fez and The Bitchin’ Kitsch. She is Editor/Founder of Yellow Chair Review.