I fall.
The ground is not the ground.
We fall
against the wall of the rec room,
the windows shatter,
the sound of applause
turns to shouting,
hundreds of grown-up voices
swirling together at once
into a trumpet of confusion.
The ceiling explodes,
plaster and dust
rain like water
on our heads,
we are covered in white.
The ground is shaking
for fifteen seconds;
it won’t stop.
We try to get up,
but it’s moving too fast,
and the air is made of sounds
from everything we can’t see.
Words, skin, clay,
nothing matters
except trying to find
something solid to hold on to.
We crawl
to the snack table
and get underneath,
dragging
everyone we see
until we are bodies
overflowing
in a too-small box.
Some grown-ups
come in through the wings,
falling into broken plaster,
the ground throwing them
every which way.
Their arms reaching for us.
We hold on to each other
until the earth
exhales
a low rumble,
until everything
is finally still.