He came home today.
Like lava he exploded
through the door and
into my arms and now
is ever so slowly burning
his way back into my life.
They say when Vesuvius
erupted, the people of
Pompeii died where they were:
some eating, some dancing.
In a thousand years
when they dig up these bones,
some white-toothed archaeologist
will point to me and say
that woman was praying.
He'll be gone by then
leaving only this charred flesh
and a paper-mache nimbus
I bought for a song.
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