Floating Hats in Yellowstone

At the edge of the Caldera,

the hot springs of Wyoming exhale–

Smoke whispers up into the skies like spirits.

Craters stretch on plains of rock–

round footprints of some ancient being. 

Orange ripples into blue. The etchings 

of her grey veins zigzag like cobweb.

The geysers here erupt without warning

every thirty-minutes or so, over three-hundred feet up,

splashing the sky with scalding water.

The tour guide says people have died from the burns.

I am seven-years-old. I stick

to the middle of the wooden platforms.

Careful not to fall in, I imagine

evaporating into black smoke–my limbs melting, 

disintegrating like cotton candy in water.

Mom would be so sad if I died.

I count the hats in the water.

They are vibrant against the gray geyser, floating:

sailboats luring me into Pennywise’s sewers. 

I hug my hat, tight to my chest.

I search for hands flailing for help, 

but there is no one in the water.

I wonder if their bones have already burned into ash.

I wonder if the rising vapors are their ghosts.

When the next geyser explodes, 

I imagine a figure tossed up into the sky.