Vesuvius Flows into Jacob More
1- The dark entrails of seraphim unbind, raw, from the firmament. Pompeii confesses to Jacob More. He pronounces the last rites. 2- An elderly woman, everyone’s grandmother, though not once a mother, turns to her grindstone again. She's the one who drinks the first seething exhale of Vesuvius; Jacob More drinks the last. 3- The doves addled coos harrow the ears. They surrender wings to ash. Under layers of crimson paint no longer will they bring peace to the maritime. 4- Jacob More leaves his stool, walks the pebbled sand, looks to another mountain, thinks he can make out Pompeii’s desperate refrain: "Paint me as though killer spoke thunder Out of scarlet clouds, As though my blood was the first to weep Upon eastern sands." 5- Infinite night drops on Pompeii through muffled screams of falling. The sand converts to glass. The petulant hiss resounds as molten paint runs into saltwater. 6- The parched canvas beseeches the doves to surface, but Jacob More has painted the final rites, and hardened over by centuries, Pompeii can’t shake itself from a dream. Baruch November Baruch November’s collection of poems entitled Dry Nectars of Plenty won BigCityLit’s chapbook contest in 2003. His poems and short fiction have been featured in Lumina, Paterson Literary Review, New Myths, The Forward, and the Jewish Journal. He teaches literature and writing courses at Touro College and lives in Washington Heights, New York.
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April 2025
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