Sierra Granodiorite —Eloise Schultz
With this continent between us, I come to assume that
I have already told you everything. That a fault is only fault
as far as you consider emergence to be a product of displacement
and not desire. When knowledge surfaces like a field in ruins, as if
the ground had unburied itself to its grey underbelly. Not a rend
but a yawn of rubble and roughage, lifeless but not dead, never
having been alive, never having tasted ocean. Bearing
away from the paleoshores at the rim of fault. Hornblende,
biotite. Bloody canyon. Passing names for substance underfoot.
When you ask me if our uncle ever hurt me. I can hear your mouth
twist unbidden on the phone. At the edge, fault. A scale that cannot
be understood. I recite the names of our gods. Of this mythology.
The fault is deafening. What bleeds. What decays. What it is to be
as honest as I can. To weather your questions. To be searched,
to be sought out. To become evidence. The saprolite open
like an onion, sloughing its petals through
my life and yours, and yours, and yours.
Danielle Beazer Dubrasky
Craig Santos Perez