I want to build a poem
from an earthquake.
I would start with the
tremors under toes and
the spastic ripples in a teacup.
Then maybe my speaker would
shout to his wife that
this is the big one
as they ran for cover
under their antique dinette.
I’d have to fill the middle section
with the requisite sounds—
some rumbles and rattles,
crashes and screams—
as the bookshelves unfastened
themselves from their studs.
As they waited out the furious
convulsions, my couple would
conjure the conceit—some
philosophy on fixedness or
the fault lines of the heart.
Peace would come and they
could sweep up the rubble
and patch their fragmented selves.
But I’ve never been in an earthquake.
I don’t know the subconscious routines,
the preventive feng shui
born from a house set jelly-legged
by the whims of rocks.
I have been able to trust my steps,
and walk in straight lines,
barefoot on calm soil.
For that I sit blank-paged,
praying to the floor until it
opens up and swallows me whole.