Together,
my family slept
in the converted garage
we could never call home.

There
you returned
as a murmur.

Whispered: wake up,
the earth is staggering
& somnambulant,
the dogs are ambulance,
wailing the ground’s

quavering ache.

I was awake & shaking.
My brother mouthing
silence, as the concrete

cracked like old bones.

The world shook guttural— terremoto uttered from deep inside its diaphragm.

My father, a skeleton
braided with tattooed muscle,
spread his arms across
the five of us (& you),
a cross in a valley

in the shadow

of Los Angeles’ restless shoulders.

Beneath the roof of my father’s arms
fear could not breathe long

enough to kindle.

I felt you there too—
furtive & light,
a caged jaguar
stowed in my pulse
edging in my chest,
an eagle growling,
its claws
in my throat

& when the earth quaked

I quaked too—
my skinny arms thrashing
softly as if feathered
ephemeral as if wrapped in plume
as if the ground
succumbing underneath
meant we were airborne
as if the Earth’s tilt had folded
my back to the curve

of a wing.

My brother looked into my eyes

told me: we’re safe here,

I will hold you down.

You’re awake.