I live in a city built on top of two slabs of rock
which sounds stable except they move underwater
like the hulls of floating freighters
and one has been getting more and more stuck
beneath the other for three hundred years.
The tidal wave is expected to be sixty feet high
when the earthquake happens
so I wonder if they shouldn’t teach meditation in schools
instead of how to hide under desks.
My son tells me it’s called a fault line
and then he asks whose fault it is
which makes me smile
with an unexpectedly happy surrender
because for once
we are not to blame
and there is nothing to do
but love each other better
while we wait.