TALKING INTO EACH OTHER'S MOUTHS
You say, If the Cumbre Vieja volcano erupts,
half the island of La Palma will plunge into the sea and then…
Rise up, Atlantic! Find us wanting at the harbor's mouth,
Coney Island lingers a mermaid's lemonade
before the irrevocable tear, the bridges tossed sticks,
Prospect just a phrase on the tip, and O!
Whitman and his houses tumble into the pull,
names gone dumb –
…but some people doubt the mega-tsunami theory,
you say, glancing up from your screen.
Out the window, the trees' bare branches
undulate like seaweed. See the current, I say,
our street signs fall, the houses lose their bricks.
You spread your arms. Draw up the sail, sweetheart.
Our room's a tight box ship. We billowy milk and wet paper
take the hit and spindrift. We wave and wave and wave.