This is geology, not love

that we’ve been talking about.
Why is your igneous in my

esophagus, and where are your fault lines
hiding in safety under the tide

until it falls away? Or maybe magma
pumps hot through the veins

of our house, a clever form of love
making. If it is hypothetical

maybes we’re after, maybe a river
ran through my spleen, deposited you instead

of sediment. Tectonics between us
are convergent these days,

you live in my lithosphere
I live in your trench. We’re not

vibrating on impact, our earth
emerging up, up, clean

and unmarked and given important names
like Himalaya or Appalachian. Instead,

we buckle over
each other. We used to care

about topography—exploring
you ran

your hands across the skin
delicately hiding the ribcage

of Wyoming, unconcerned by the sleeping
catastrophe beneath. But this is fucking

geology: erosion
and rock cycles. Hot spots

include Hawaii and Iceland
in addition to Wyoming—

not my vagina, especially not
my heart. Ring of Fire means

the Pacific Rim, twenty-five thousand
miles of ruthless earthquakes

and volcanoes
that have destroyed cities, whole islands,

killed and killed and killed,
a direct result

of plate tectonics, not love, not even
what happens after. To be fair,

acts of nature don’t have will, can’t
truly be ruthless.

 

Thin Air Magazine | Winter 2011