On most days before I sleep,
I cautiously slip under the duvet and
prepare for the sudden teeth-gritting, the
sly rattle prowling on
the walls, for concrete bricks to
fail my bones and turn into
crimson-flecked debris.
I imagine possible scenarios and
potential escapeways.
If the door frame gets warped
and stuck, we can crouch down under the counter
and bandage our fear by discerning
still objects around us.
If the attic plunges, the balcony might
lead to a hatch. If the balcony slopes down,
we can climb out the bedroom window.
And if the aftershocks last for few more
seconds and the ground buckles, ironing lamps
and throw pillows and memories,
I'll make sure the last thing my arms hold
are her head and his tiny warm body.
On most days before I sleep,
I choose my last words carefully.
