TERREMOTO

for my first earthquake i was dehydrated,
for my second i was thirsty. after my third
the german shepherd in the rental yard
poked his head through the torn screen,
wanting scraps, reward…he knew this appeal
would be strong after a survival: after trial,
            bounty; after fear, feast.
 
my reward? it’s coming. neon, seussical,
a nonsense with dull sticky tips, a nuisance
of fresh thickets caught in the green horse fleece,
an earwig on my only chocolate bar, a taxicab on the beach
and its driver’s three daughters, there for free,
                in sweatpants––
 
remembering the full rectangle of my potential,
i throw a pear pit from the ferry and pass
among lumps of island, dolphin. the andalusian
whitens and we’re reminded you can kill a wine
in barrel. meanwhile in the rental yard the dog
has a sheep’s leg. the hoof is there, attached,
but the wool and bone have parted ways:
gray wool in the house, blood on the grass,
ten actual sheep in an astonished group,
a green blanket aloft, and, lo, burrs.
         home alone with a nosebleed,
 
i empty a tricolor ice cream gallon and use it
to measure my loss. portia on the phone says
up to two quarts and you live. instead of thinking,
think about food…red spaghetti, a refreshing
terremoto, with pineapple sorbet and vodka and beer.
i’ll bear what i eat. it’ll wear strong. a boy
            kicks a shark head along
            the beach. his father says he doesn’t care
            what he becomes, as long as he becomes a captain.