DON’T

She was the woman thrown into the volcano
who survives.
She kept collapsing inside herself.
Resentment, the ashy taste,
she kept on being busy tasting it
while making the old mistake: trying hard
to please the furies who
require tearing, piercing, searing,
and hang from a branch in their
fur lined leather jackets
like old guard Soviets.
They too, the sirens, kept making a mistake:
they let a mouth go on singing.
Don’t sing about them.