Quake Song
The quake ran through the capitol—
beneath it burns a hell.
Above the ground we couldn’t reach
inside the earth’s bent shell.
The road’s a sieve, foundations
sunk
inside the choking dust.
The injured die, the babies starve,
their lips a withered crust.
A prison threw out crushing blocks,
the sewers vomit tongues.
We all could be survivors—
licking clean our young.
Catherine Zickgraf
Catherine Zickgraf’s
main jobs are to hang out with her family and write poetry. Her work has
appeared in the Journal of the American Medical Association, Pank, Victorian
Violet Press and The Grief Diaries. Her recent chapbook, Soul
Full of Eye, is published through Aldrich Press
Tags:
Poetry