The stories told by adults
are about a hairy hand
that walks the streets at night
like a spider,
and a headless priest
who wanders all over the city,
and a witch with cruel laughter,
and ordinary people who fly away
high above rooftops.
Whenever the smell of sulfur
rises and pours down over this house,
I want to believe that it’s just the odor
of bathwater in a volcanic hot springs,
but old people
keep warning me
about fiery lava
and other
volcanic
evils.