Tomorrow, when the Vulcan god of fire,
Rejects their offerings, she will burn with the rest of the city.

Tomorrow, when the wrath of gods pour into landfills and
The river boils, she will not get far on foot.

Tomorrow, when the walls are breaking and the air is sour with naked fear, she will be one of a thousand deaths, slaughtered under the mass of ash and pumice.

But today, she is alive and with her mother in the markets,
Clutching a stout baby. The sun is shining and they are shopping for the evening meal.

Pausing at the flower stand between the vendors of fishhooks
And cloth, the flower she lifts to her nose smelled sweeter than usual.

– Sarah Huang