Devil's Breath

The crust of the ground has not yet healed over, here
the earth is still making itself,
its surface hot and tender,
Steam rises with the deep sigh
of something unsettled beneath.

Sulphur reminds us of what lies in our own bowels,
ice wind blows it into our faces:
'smell this, smell this, this is what I am'
until we are no longer repulsed,
who are we to feel superior?

Look into the cracks venting heat from the earth's heart,
once vapour has escaped the ground
it joins its kind rising from the sea
to fall again as mountain snow,
see the red eye of the devil,
no cruelty in it, it knows you.

It was here that a woman called Gunna was thrown,
alive, into the boiling water,
she could not pay her rent,
had given up each belonging
but her last, a cooking pot
she determined to keep.

She had stood over that pot boiling herbs and birds,
breathed in the rising steam
smelt the sweetness of life
the inevitability of death
watched the plop, plop, plop
of good cooking.

Gunna had felt her landlord's hot breath on her neck,
'Witch', he called her, 'Witch you will die',
'I am scalded, boiled, cooked,
to death,'she shrieked her final agony
to the ravens overhead
her voice drifting with the wind.

Sulphurous clouds carry a foul memory,
foul, yet petty, it is pity,
in the devil's molten eye,
if devil it is, we disown
our own malevolence,
name it as something other.

We walk away stumbling across the lava field,
dare not look back lest a glance thrown
over a shoulder, turns us to rock,
how we love stories to spread
the blame, as though there was not enough
to fear.