Earthquake

Always it starts with a tiny sound,

No louder than the clink of ice in a glass—

The little Venus on the table

Tick-tocks as it walks in a wobble,

The frame beside it slowly slides,

The books begin to leave the shelves

As though pulled out by many readers,

And the vase, after a tap dance,

Leans on a side and topples over,

Its water like a hand of tears

Trying to retrieve the spilled roses,

And then the falling starts in earnest—

The miniature Venus de Milo

Drops to the floor to join its arms

In the unseen world of the broken,

The portraits kiss the floor and break,

Glasses and plates, all things untied,

Fall out and shatter on the tiles,

And those that are attached swing wildly,

The cuckoo comes out of its closet

To shout an anonymous hour,

As the whole house itself convulses

With the now fast unsettling ground.

Terror comes at a given morning

Which otherwise we might forget,

Expecting mornings to be the usual—

Sunny and with a hint of breeze,

Quiet but for the kindly tinkle

Of teaspoon in a coffee cup—

And yet it is that kind of morning

When suddenly disaster strikes

And it could be the end of time—

We rush out of the shaking house

And hold each other as the ground

Heaves and churns, threatening to open

And swallow up what is above it,

Our prayers get louder, they’re almost

Like shouts, we want them physically

To lift us from the angry ground,

A neighbor’s house smokes at the sides

Which twisting has turned into powder,

“Lord, save us!” we cry, “Mary help us!”

Before we know it, it is over,

That is the way with such as earthquakes,

That’s what they share with a fine day,

So passing it is, like a sunset,

And then it’s dark, we hope to hear

Again the voices of our children

And in our arms to gather them,

Enclose them with a wall of sobs.

In time we hear of other cries

Louder than ours, of other places

That were spun faster and bounced higher

By the unspeakable upheaval,

Perhaps the people there were like us,

Having just risen from their sleep,

Or else in church for early Mass,

We only hear of news about them

And, of course, see the photographs—

Roads with cracks so huge they went down

To the earth’s dark, mysterious heart,

The splintered bridges flapping limply

Like the strips of a burst balloon,

And over where once stood the homes

And the enormous ancient churches

The dust hung, staying behind like a parent

In the place where a child was lost.

What I find strange is that the statue

Of Mary the Mother of God

Was often all that had remained,

Intact but for a nick or two,

Among the heartbreaking debris.

But about faith and its mystery,

After my heart has trembled with the earth,

Nothing now comes as a surprise—

Is that not where you should stand, Mary,

Wherever there is devastation,

Just as you stood under the Cross?