Little Seismic Poem by Rebekah Remington

I was there.
The fan trembled.
The plant trembled.
The rented room became one faint undulation.
Great Aunt Mary said, "I think we should we should go."
Outside, the sun reigned.
The sand was as usual. Striped umbrellas.
Women in tankinis, their happy and unhappy bodies,
walking along, and the ocean liners far off, all unshaken.
Later we bought a six pack and a bag of groceries.
Did you feel it? a stranger in line asked.
The National Cathedral, a place I have visited only twice,
lost three pinnacles off its central tower.
What else? Nothing else, or this:
the bees come, the apples.
In September my son writes an essay called "Brave Boy,"
and the teacher calls his handwriting sloppy.
The vagabond stands on the green island,
and the light changes.
Why do the bees sound so happy this year?
Why are the houses all awake,
shining lights even in daylight?
The anti-confessional prodigal daughter
goes about her business, filing papers, buying groceries.
When I stand in the white glow of the refrigeration zone
in Paradise Liquors it's the names I love:
Flying Dog, Resurrection, Woody Creek.
It's not all about high alcohol content.
Shock Top, Raging Bitch, Blue Moon.
Something for the afternoon, when the children
mine for virtual diamonds.
How do I get a pickaxe?
Press B.
The bees come. The apples.