the wreckage

"if there is an earthquake before i count to 10, i will open my eyes and the world will be falling. and if there is an earthquake before i count to 10, it will knock my secrets off their shelves, and i will walk through the city across the bridge and over the ocean to your house, through everything falling, yes. i will pretend to be surprised when you spot me from your front porch as i am walking down your street (but you will know the truth). i will say, 'how funny to run in to you. i was just recalling the time we threw glass plates off of the parking garage on second avenue, the scratches and scent from the rosemary bush we hid in. why would we hide in a rosemary bush?' everything around will be crumbling to dust and you will casually hold your hands over your head as if it is just a light rain, and you'll say, 'i don't know, kate, i guess it was just there. would you like to come in?'
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at this point the earth feels still, although really it's not, it never is. you know the big quake is coming, you can feel it in all of your being. there are fruit flies in the garbage can but soon the trash will be inconsequential. asbestos and drawings are peeling off the walls. everything is doomed but you feel romantic and wild and free.

"if there is an earthquake before i count to 10, i will not duck and cover. if there is an earthquake before i count to 10, i will stretch my hands out to the clouds, and i will celebrate the wreckage.
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