Aftershocks
Somaya Abdullah


I hold your hand in the rain as you twirl me around;

it must be wonderful to be a part of someone’s elaborate scheme.

If I could etch it into your name plates, with deep cuts in the gold, I would,

If I could broadcast our telephone greetings, if only I could.

Your smile is a bomb shelter and a rose parade

as if God themself decided you deserved it.
 
 
My mama says “come home,

you are playing house.”

I come home.

I don’t disagree.

I throw myself on my bed,

a substitute for a sturdy chest,

and pray for a California earthquake

to feel your heartbeat.

I wake up in the middle of the night

to a shake in the ground.

Only six feet under,

the hypocenter telling me

you’re thinking of me too.



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