The Innisfree Poetry Journal www.innisfreepoetry.org by Judith McCombs EARTHQUAKE Maricopa, fall 1948 Not a dream but the bed shaking me awake, and Herky just lying there, not barking—so I knew not to try to get out while our home lurched on its axles—there couldn't be anyone outside shoving our walls, or towing us away with no chains. Next day the loudmouth rigger from two trailers over was out by the clotheslines, bragging how he'd been rollered high as a carnie ride, just trying to find the head in the dark, he got pushed to his knees not knowing what kind of wildcat was heaving inside him. Oh I can imagine, my mother giggled, setting our washload on the ground—but how could she, when Dad never drank ever? Then she straightened her face to say hadn't he worried about his wife, left on her own in an earthquake? Horace just reckoned the women knew how to ride trouble better'n him. Mother got me busy hanging socks, but I was halfway wishing he'd push up his sleeve and ripple the snake on his Tokyo Rosie— what would Mother do then? Even Dad was perked up that day—he'd been talking to the survey crew, no damage near us, just the Tehachapi prison walls broken, and the women awarded two months off their time if they didn't run away. Last night's elevations, after the slippage, could tell us a lot, if the chief would just send him out to refigure the surface. ["Earthquake" appears in Territories, Here and Elsewhere (Mayapple, rev. ed. 1996).] PRIORITIES She's hung pretty high, your oak. Stay behind me, says Roy, that's eighty feet up where she's caught, in that hickory—see how it's already started to crack? Where's your property line? We'll drop her through here if we can, and spare your azaleas— but a tree like that could split or spin out anytime— I know a guy who's wearing a brace forever. We can't climb her at all, can't rope her worth spit. Tim, the one with the chainsaw, he'll do what he can. Tim called me 4:30 this morning—he's a friend from way back— Did I have work? Do I ever, me and my cousin got trees out our ears with this storm, and Tim's a great climber. We thank you for waiting, but I got priorities— people with trees on their houses and driveways come first. It's Tim who walks up to the base of the slanting oak, beside the ropes that Roy and his cousin have tossed and fished round the trunk, before they backed off up the hill. It's Tim, bent over, who cradles the chainsaw, touches down and pulls back, touch wood and pull back, it looks as easy as a knife slicing cake, or a surfer shaving a wave— I can't see the ripple or splint that changes it all— why he's leaping backwards in air, kicking out like a Cossack, almost falling downhill, the chainsaw still whirring flung off to one side while he leaps, still facing the tree— and now we can see how it's moving, it's freed, the crashing thuds down, bounces and thuds, right where Roy said. Tim's a real good friend, and as good with the saw as my cousin, says Roy as he figures the bill. But John's my cousin, that's family, you see, and family stays back with the ropes. ["Priorities" appears in The Habit of Fire: Poems Selected and New (Word Works, 2005).] © Copyright 2006-7 by Cook Communication |