by Iris Jamahl Dunkle
Each day shifts its weight against plates of time.
New month opens like the mouth of a dip-slip:
fissures from which we arise still blinking
and haunted by the past. What got me here?
Did chance land me in this other landscape?
And if so, how do I tell it? I don’t
know the species of trees or birds. Stories
that whisper from the grey river just come
apart in my hands when I kneel at its
muddy banks, trying to gather them up.
Still, I can’t lose the education of
earthquakes. What’s under me now may (no, will) rise up, so best to get to know it.