Poetry
Garden of the Fugitives
I.
Once taken up by homes,
this whole expanse had been
transformed into a vineyard.
The triclinium held a trio of beds
on which at outdoor banquets lay
both hosts & guests, also in threes.
A pergola protected them,
its open lattice wreathed in
woody vines supplying shade.
II.
Across a sizzling heap of pumice stones
already reaching three-plus meters high
women and men and children sped.
The pyroclastic flow, 500 degrees
of burning cloud, a swirl of gas and
dust and stone, cut short their flight.
As 13 strove to reach Nocera Gate each
faltered, fell. These days along a garden
wall, encased in glass, lie 13 plaster casts.
John Menaghan
John Menaghan has published 4 books with Salmon Poetry (All the Money in the World, She Alone, What Vanishes, and Here and Gone), received 6 Pushcart Prize nominations, and had poems appear in numerous journals, including Ambit, The Hopkins Review, Brilliant Corners, Poetry Ireland, Atlanta Review and American Arts Quarterly.