the largest quakes
roar forth from where
one tectonic plate
slides under another
let’s do that
dance
geologically
shifting positions
wrecking our puny house
tearing the roads apart with
sonic booms in the bed-
rock
the axis of the earth
a few inches askew
spins oddly
and the stars
not quite the same —
do it
again and again
until we have to change
the myths we make to explain
the pictures in the night sky
The ring:
old,
greened turquoise,
thick silver,
craftsman-signed.
The finger:
swollen,
mangled and pustulent,
thick with infection,
shot through with pain.
When they said
they’d have to cut
the ring from me,
I said,
“take the finger.
It’s not as important
as the heritage that ring
carries…”
But they cut it
anyway. Cut deep into
corrupt flesh,
dug under the shank
and cut it
anyway.
The band on my hand new to the fresh air,
the blood flowing,
the anesthetic distancing me
from the pain;
still I bawled like a baby,
like a victim of massacre,
like a lost tribe,
like a ghost being cast out.
They gave me
the bloody split ring
to keep and pray
over and handle while thinking
repair and hope and then sinking
into loss,
and I said in response
to their incredulity:
yes,
I would have given the finger.
I think it would have felt the same.
the youth are leaving home
on fire
looking for a cool pond
to quench in
a good place to drink
a good place to skinny dip
they want to know
why we lit them up
what led to lit matches
and gasoline
we don’t know what to say
with these antique burned lips
other than fire
cleanses and
we wish them well
even as they flee us
Dark Matter 