by Emily Roy

It could

lurch,

this land.

Protrude with golden crested knuckles

and trickle, and seep, and foliage.

It jumped once

we saw it on the news

and swept the broken pots

back into the clay stretched hills.

Perhaps the drive has splayed

as far as the rubber may stretch

and the sublime is

springing

back through

spluttering engine

and that thick treacle light.

Stagnancy lingers,

the road chips in fractals;

a second shadow to wave at

the green manicured branches.

Forget to call, we’re upright

in an earthquake

watching the motion glow.

It crashes,

in that seismic purr.

The fossils nearly reemerged,

but to be rebuilt

was

not enough

and the cicadas

(and the kihikihi)

would need to find home again.

The final thrum

and a mellifluous silence:

How strange it is to miss the shake.

How strange it is to be anything

at all.