When the earthquake hit,
I was peeling an apple,
but it wasn't an earthquake,
and it wasn't an apple—
we were in Atlantis again,
waiting for the sea floor
to stop trembling, and you
were removing a mask
to prove that you were not
just another character.
We were in the Atlantis
that spit lava ribbons
and bubbled white smoke
to the surface, and you
were removing a mask
to reveal a heart-breaking
lifespan. We don't last long,
and we screw around
with words, pretending
we're not real—not real real.
I was peeling an apple,
and it was spelling something,
but I was too worried
about my gushing heart
to see the letters. Or dog paddle
from death. Or take it all in.
Rob MacDonald lives in Boston and is the editor of Sixth Finch. His poems can be found in Gulf Coast, Sink Review, iO, inter|rupture, H_NGM_N and other journals. He has books forthcoming from Rye House Press and Racing Form Press.