Last Wave by Pimone Triplett

No warning, the fissure, the wave, the wreck, reckoning.

No warning, mantle’s woe unto trench maw, bespeaking mega thrust.

And ocean receding, fish flapping in sand, silver.

Till water curved its back, crashed, spurting stones, dogs, shards, children.

Sky, sea, two spools unwinding in wet.

Though tourists were in love, the building-sized blue arc above them.

No warning, TNT force of thirty-two billion tons.

And the father’s back slapping hard, water’s uppercut coming on full.

And the arms shooting open, the child let go.

And the bellow-fat beast stamping its feet unchained.

Spattering the lime-striated caves, dry a second before.

Though a woman leaps from one rooftop to another, lives.

Though in village legend, long drought follows the flood.

And the tectonic subducts drop-kick one plate against another.

Though a taxi driver pauses over his noodles at the start of thunder.

Though money’s made to dance on tables, entertaining locals.

No warning, this fist, signature.

Though seafloor systems exist, pricey items.

Though boys and men run the beach, yelling get back.

And some bodies drag along the coral for miles.

Though one fly rubs its hands.

No warning like a voice turned inward.

Though for two hundred thousand their last taste is salt.

No warning and the voice is as if.

Sky, sea, the two spools unraveling.

The voice breaking, birthing, up-wrathed, out-wrung—

by Pimone Triplett

from her book Rumor (TriQuarterly Books)

and published on Poetry Daily

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