The earth shook for me again today.
With the rumble of an 18-wheeler headed for the house,
doors shimmy, windows rattle.

I make my way across the swaying floor
like a child trying
not to step on the cracks.

Our phones scream an alarm.
Harry shouts “Earthquake!”
“Go outside!” Mom yells over her shoulder.

She runs out the front door,
leaving us still
standing in the living room.

Dad reads the alert
with imperturbable calm.
Drop. Cover. Hold On. Protect Yourself.

When life has shaken me before,
I’ve been asleep,
unconscious of the deep down pulse.

Understanding the tremors—
betrayal, heartbreak—
only when it is all over.

Nothing looks different,
not even me,
but everything fractionally shifted.

Drop. Cover. Hold On. Protect Yourself.

Magnitude 4.9, it says on my phone,
as if there is a standardized measure
for how much I’ve been shaken.