“Seismic” by Susanna Kittredge
Six years in San Francisco and I haven’t felt an earthquake
any bigger than the rumbling of a semi on a side street.
I’m starting to think we’ve gone too soft and stilted
to move the earth.
It happened once in 1808 when the Franciscan fathers
were shaking up the natives, causing great clefts
between the Ohlone and their earth.
And in 1906, no surprise, as Mayor Schmitz & Co. were shaking down
the populous; change loosed unceremoniously from pockets,
the clatter of corruption loud on every street and sidewalk.
And even in ‘89 it made some sense – still a hint of hippy left,
looking to shake up the establishment. So many people swaying
to the Dead at once were bound to move the ground.
But now we are so staid. Entitled to the iWorld at our fingertips,
never needing to pound pavement, we are soporific
and the earth is bored and still.
I say I don’t believe in quakes, then bite my tongue to stop the jinx -
the Big One quaking up to prove me wrong.
Except, of course, an earthquake doesn’t care if I believe in it or not.
It is no Tinkerbell, who’ll die without our clapping;
no God with eyes enough to keep one on every soul.
More like a hibernating bear who sleeps until it’s faded to a rumor -
and then in the spring, as I bend carelessly to smell the first flower
that blooms sweetly by the bear-quake’s cave, it wakes -
comes romping out and tramples me. Or sinks its teeth into my neck.
Earthquakes believe in nothing but destruction.
I don’t want to be so dire all the time. I could say the quake will be like
the explosive rocking of my neighbors’ bed, knocking against the shared wall.
I could say that I’m the only one who’s bored, and with myself;
that the quake will shake me from my stupor.
I could say the quake will be salvation because that’s what poets say;
and maybe some part of me believes it’s true.
Copyright © 2009, Susanna Kittredge
