The Ancients Who Hadn’t the Fridge Get Spooked by Apocalyptic Dreams, Write a Letter They Never Send

by Farryl Last

I watched you leave on your journey that woolen tunic I hate
 
bobbing against fields of grain, footsteps in erratic orbit
you gone now four days I don’t know how many more, but here
the same stays the same. Clear morning sky, the garden is screaming
though the room is cool, at midnight, and quiet.
 
All day you’ve been working the bread in the oven then
dreaming again, again
the world ending, the gentle volcano spewing its death
like a comet, which I have never seen. This I am glad
 
to be rid of for a while, the proving
of impossibilities: we could one day store berries like
honey. I say this as example. Winter
could sit forever, too. And you will always be hungry—
 
Anyway the season is here, I haven’t buried
the leaves yet. The first time you dreamt this Vesuvius
was a mouth of flame, licking over our necks and stomachs
and we drowned in instant heat. The second
 
the ash cloud stuffed up our windows, the cracks in the walls
our cells. What do you dream of during your
away? Then you ate a cheese sandwich, which seemed
strange. The fig trees are blooming, the ferns stifling
 
the view from the back window, the smell of olives
at my wrists. It is good: this continuum
the flowers echoing spring, spring—and you
will always look for the source of your hunger. This is Pompeii
 
this was Pompeii, I don’t want your woolen tunic, your stupid dreams.