Volcanic Roars

As I sunk into bed I knew I would never
return—I felt it burning, cushions unleashing
something from within, blinding bold, without fear,
and as I struggled I started to turn
to ash—flaking off the bone—I knew
that it would be impossible to extinguish, my room
turned orange then blue. All of your secret
notes, your stuffed animal Pepper,
and your father’s painting—the one he made
just for you—followed the path
of my bones. Our room echoed with
a flash, then our house, then Pine St.
blinked. All that remained was your necklace,
the one you threw into the woods—buried—
protected by birds and plants with purple
and magenta leaves. If you go to the spot
where your necklace now lives, I promise
it’ll be right where you left it—waiting for you

Jake Rosenberg is a recent graduate of Wesleyan University, and his work has previously appeared in Eunoia Review and Sucarnochee Review.

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