Everyone sat around
talking the end of the world.
​
 
Did you read that
New Yorker article?
they asked.
​
 
The world is bigger
      I thought
than the PacificNorthWest
bigger than here
                             to Japan.
 
 
Then I remembered
when the world lived
in the coils of my body, before
   the tsunami,
     before the wreckage.
​
 
Once the world quaked
when someone said
        You’re just like your mother.
​
 
But lately no tremors
save the ones 
between my legs. 
​
 
If the world should end, be
swallowed by some swell
of foaming brown and
violent blue, may it find us
tumbling
already raw and
unalone.