The pond of bones begins to rattle. Even Mother’s
throne collapses, her body disassembles. The ground
turns to quicksand as it trembles and swallows
every socket, every thorn, every pebble. In a single
gulp the bed beneath the Smaller Ones swirls down
a funnel. The earth has groaned like this before.
We know what to expect though it doesn’t help
us guess which plate will lift its crust and which
will crumble. The dust is blinding. It separates us
as we scramble. Unknowingly, some of us run