EARTHQUAKE
I dream: in a gynaecologist’s waiting room,
the nurse recites the available examination dates.
I contemplate the days in my calendar,
weighing which ones would suit me.
And at that moment, a rumbling: as if, from a hill,
a great metal dragon rushed down to devour us.
The room shakes, all glass and loudness,
you catch my hand,
although I’m not aware you caught my hand.
Later on, we gather plant pots in the room,
the black soil scattering over the carpet,
no power, no news,
the thighs weaken,
one man in the street,
silence.
A little later: it roars again,
I grab the little dog,
I run under the doorframe.
A little later: the room is a drum,
half-naked in the open doorway,
you shout my name.
Later, the day twitched a lot later.
We walked through the biting morning, with backpacks on our backs,
a lot of people in the street,
a lot of masks on the faces.
Pyjamas, a cat on a leash,
a young man in a wheelchair,
my dog barking.
Later, the night twitched a lot later.
I’m learning to sleep – as if I’m learning to walk.