Tremofobia II: Field Expedition

second poem of a series exploring the word "tremfobia," which in Spanish is an irrational fear of earthquakes

Something has changed perceptibly

in the way your energy surges

through mine like a force of physics

those rare nights we find our way

into the same space with a closed

door that nobody saw us enter.

 

I spent a full decade carefully

constructing a new home on

what I thought was solid unshakeable

ground; maybe somewhere in the

heart of the Pyrenees, surrounded

by safe things like

little French bakeries and cheese

shops and flowers in abundance.

 

Somewhere exotic enough to

awaken my curiosity; small

enough to know the neighbors-

who is a good one, who is

an a*****e. I was sure I could put

a vase on the table and I would

never again have to fear it breaking

in a fit of calculated rage.

 

Now I realize that the ground itself

is just an illusion. I am not the woman

of stone I claimed to be when you

met me. I feel level terrain folding

downward into synclines; I feel

something from you with a force

that can be measured in S and P

waves, surging to break my bedrock

into a thousand pieces.

 

In these spare quiet moments,

in your arms- I struggle

not to show you how deep the

vulnerability of the fault line of a

woman’s life can extend- through the

mantle, into the core itself, where

even nickel and iron flow like

melted ice.

 

I am equally afraid that you would

leave me if I told you all of this; as

I am that you will never know, if I

do not. I am a girl again on her first

field expedition in the territory of men

carrying clipboards and studying the

changing nature of crystallized magma.

I am an architect of homes in

the world of nomads. I am

a lover of fine fragile things-

vases of lilies- in the land of

major earthquakes.

 

Author's Note

Second of a series written as an assignment for poetry club "Casa los Altos." Translated from my original version in Spanish