New Air | Nels Hanson

That morning I followed the professor
with oak walking stick, pack, my lantern

across the crater’s black sand to descend
the quiet volcano’s mouth to the Center

I didn’t complain of Dante or sad Virgil
his guide starting down into a sky-less

night-bound land without stars or sun or
moon or fear that roped together we’d

traverse hot peaks above infernal valleys
of souls like burning apple trees. By luck

we found an unknown ocean, lost Atlantis
past hungry salamander big as a dinosaur,

and bones of Iceland’s lone explorer 300
years pointing one white finger straight

at a chimney’s up-rushing wind that blew
our cauldron to the surface world. All dark

miles of our descent we discovered Earth,
every downward spiral stair took us closer

to its core, wheel’s empty hub, the heart.  
The compass needle spun endlessly, each

direction now north, south, east, west and
finally all our steps led upward to new air.

Indian Review | Author | Nels Hanson poems on Indian Review | Indian Literature & Poetry

Indian Review | Author | Nels Hanson poems on Indian Review | Indian Literature & Poetry