First there were little earthquakes:
a lingering look, a silly smile,
a shove in the playground,
the magnetic pull of pretty girls
on unsuspecting little boys,
even the ones I’d marked out as my own.
Then came the lightning storms
of first loves
requited with roaring thunder
of fists and fig tree branches;
the scarred tissue of my trunk
still bleeds internally.
After the smoke lifted
and I dusted off my charred remains,
I saw a blue sky
sending me little cloud animals
and we played pictogram for hours.
Oh how I loved the blue sky,
but it turned pink and pale
every morning and evening.
Who knew a sunrise could hurt
more than a thunder storm?
I don’t know when the fissure started,
or when the first heart wall collapsed
and I said
“No worries, I have two
and I only need one to survive”,
but I had skipped that chapter in the textbook
while falling head over calloused heels.
The tsunami of my infatuation
sunk my get-away boat into the Atlantic
and changed my charted course
away from Boston.
I was the Robinson Crusoe
on a two-person deserted island,
burning my soul for fire and
feeding Friday pieces of my flesh for dinner
when the fish didn’t bite.
I don’t know when the ocean floor began to open,
at first a fault
when the pieces of the island drifted apart
and magma broke through the surface,
then a deeper rift.
I tried to send my thoughts down
with poetic oxygen tanks
and high-tech submarines
but they can’t find the bottom.
The pressure inside the abyss crushes them
in their descent.
Today I run from earthquakes
and carry parasols as umbrellas.
I cover my eyes at sunrises
and my heart at sunsets.
But all of it is in vain;
no one can forecast the weather