Quit it with the fear thing. Scientists can’t say
with much certainty when The Big One will happen;
when the Pacific Northwest might cascade
under the sea or when the Golden State will tilt
on its underground axis. Whole cities built
atop wet sand, entire bridge spans swaying.
Everything will be upended. It’s inevitable.
Posters in every classroom you’ve ever been in
show cartoon students ducking under desks.
You know how to shield your neck from falling
fixtures. You live in earthquake country now,
where even the solid ground is destined
to slip. No sirens will warn you, no weathermen
will forecast the tremble. That rumor about dogs—
that they can hear the plates scraping
before they release—is disputed.
The thing about instability is we rarely see it
coming. We go about our days, all hands
and mouths and memories, never fully aware
of the ricochet. We refuse to look it in the eye.
To say with all our teeth, I know you’re possible.
We wake each morning, never peering down
from our vertiginous denial, and live.