Volcano

Soul is, after all, deep longing,
a storage basin
that sometimes overflows in splurge of love.

Emma Wood in church stood up
to proclaim her love
when she could no longer contain it,
and would shout aloud
words none of us understood,
then, at once, sat down,
red faced, confused, and embarrassed

Emma had a younger sister called Marie,
who at seventy dressed like a girl:
short skirts and a smear of red lipstick.
She loved to flirt with young boys,
most especially me.

These sisters lived together
in a tiny house,
though each was embarrassed by the other.
Both were kind to me,
even if they did call me James,
which was not my name.
My job was to be polite
and treat both the same.

We do not live long
and death threatens loss of spirit;
so soul rebels,
throws a tantrum at being ignored
as the body weakens.

Death, seen as crone,
bares the cost of what we call longing,
and so reveals
the reservoir we must needs empty:
all kinds of love.