Ungrounded

(For Tracy, around 2006)

An earthquake shook my shoes on Saturday night, and
my hat. It was centered, I am told, nine miles below
that first kiss, at Burnside and Thirty-first.

Nine miles seems far,
but the roots I pulled up to get to this place were planted
thirty times as far from that kiss, and long before
an earthquake shook the spot.

My grip on the earth was anything
but tentative, my massive body held firm
by roots that knew the ground
was one thing that would never
falter.

Tornados ripped roofs from houses.
Strong and supple and unconcerned, I bent. Wind
or stillness made no difference. I stood,
unmoved, I stood until your song-

I still remember-touched me, pulsed
my molecules, my very water. Dizzy

in the whirlpool of music, I extricate
myself from that soil, don the shoes
and the hat, brave the winds and
follow
that
sound.

Powerful enough a rhythm that my water boils
itself wet, dances, turns my molecules
mobius, lubricates its own salvation.

No longer planted in the earth, I stand
at this trembling crossroads, a new energy
holding me fluid-erect, soul of water, song
of water, awaiting the tsunami
I know will come.