Plates

Francis lays next to me, asleep and
Twitching with his tongue out, licking
Obliviousness while the lawn mowers hum
The song of suburban America. What is
Tranquility in the face of tragedy and
How are we sharing the same plane of
Existence? I do not feel calm, or safe, or
Happy any more. I text my mother and
Cry for lost sons, brothers, sisters, children
I’ll never have. This could be us, but we
Live in the right place at the right time
And not the other way around. There is
No peace in memory, no peace in action,
No peace at all. No one feels the earth’s
Rotation, the plates moving beneath our
Feet but we are floating, floating, floating
And hanging on for dear life.

Author: Erica V.

Always seriously joking and rambunctiously soft-spoken.

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