gas masks, metal rods cowered
underneath the pressure of overabundant
friction. my brother left old skin
behind, in the rubble.
the tremor of neurons, or hands, or lands
is cause for alarm (which is a tremor of neurons),
(which is the reverberation of slammed gates)
(which is the shiver of throat borne from a white, chalky epicenter)
(which is a shaky aorta the doesn’t affect him none)
(which is a shriek burst from quivering chords)
were there any casualties? Was anyone
stood beneath the frame of this felled house?
Even now, echoes escape esophagus
in the dark of night to meet a cold door
with slits that can do naught but disregard him.
no one bothers about the casualty that’s the disaster
hearts don’t reply “yes” when twitchy fingers knock
the blood from the wound that speaks does not get wiped
away. you’re simply left a statistic, with a name
and alone at night, the soundless crunch of toss
and turns, a body begging a bed for comfort.