"The Temporary Nature of Being" by Jessica Mehta
The Temporary Nature of Being
Bedded down in the woods,
the houses rest on stilts, dangerous,
dangling like sleeping children
on top bunks. We tiptoe like gluttons
across the Cascadia faults, as if
the sweets stuffed in cupboards
and ice cream cradled in freezers are fair
trade for our lives. The experts call us
woefully unprepared as we bow tangled
heads over sugary cereal, the morning
news unable to shock. Tsunamis overseas,
floods on the east coast—we’re so sure
nothing can touch us here, not in the Wild
West, never where gold rushes raged
or Martinis were birthed to lips. Forest hugs
me close, the occasional sharp thorny fingernails
tracing taut calves or hoggish spider webs
licking face. One day,
soon,
it will all come crashing down: the West
Hills homes indie bands made famous,
the teetering decks like behemoths,
dumb and feeble scarecrows in the sky.