So many so small go on day and night
under your feet you barely notice.
A big bang sounds like someone in the upstairs apartment
knocking over their refrigerator, and you ask,
Why knock over your refrigerator?
while friends turn pale and head for the doorjambs.
No, no, it's just some guy
going ape-shit in his kitchen, you insist.
Maybe he's drunk. You're so good at making up explanations,
you miss the moments things shift
for real, red tulips beginning to wilt in their vase,
their lipstick mouths puckering like dowagers,
or the way a marriage curdles like milk left out too long.
You're standing on sand,
(you're always standing on sand,)
but its not the same sand as a wave ago,
everything has swept in and out,
regardless of whether you believe in death
who says, Alright, fine, don't believe in me,
or who doesn't say anything at all,
just goes about his death business,
loosening lovers arms from around each other's necks,
liberating teeth from their gums.
The yellow and brown crumpled gloves
of last year's fig leaves
lie abandoned in front of your house,
flaking detritus someone has to sweep up
and touch, someone has to notice and mourn.
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Comments about this poem (Earthquakes by Alison Luterman )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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