Patient Volcano

She holds out her hand.
Outstretched, on frayed imported silk, wrapped up in her own flesh, breasts, bones, sweat.
She feels herself-
fists holding her breath, eyes shut
forehead lit, her heart, with its mouth of desert thirsty lips agape, waiting, desperate
dying for a drop of quenching rain. Desperately dying for rain.
She holds out her hand.
But why?
She holds out her hand.
A tentacle of her heart, beating, breathing, believing, being.
Desperately dying to be.
Too taut and the drops tumble; trembling to earth.
Quenching instead, her thirst: an offering to Pachamama
Too flacid and she shrivels up from gluttony:
lounging…