Childhood As Seen Through An Earthquake

Sophia Young

I craft a banjo from tissue box and shoelace

for show and tell, spray paint the sides banana gold

and whirl lightning bolts with my fingers,

loop my father’s belt for a strap and sling 

the instrument across my back. I’m stopped

mid-moonwalk through school, when the teacher

asks me to play a song for her and I decide 

on “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-a-Lot because

haven’t you ever wanted to absolutely lose it

in front of a crowd? jam the strings so hard

kids cover their heads with history textbooks 

because beams and rafters are raining down 

like plagues? and when the teacher yells for you to stop,

find you’ve drawn all the street dogs to a holler,

completely cracked the school in half 

and the lockers hang half-open and everyone within

a mile shivers down their skeletons, snails slip

from their shells, hummingbirds hum their lasts, 

tomatoes explode in bagged lunches and at the center

of it all you kneel: play a little slower, bring 

the house down while the teacher sighs in relief, 

she must feel it too, the way the world just moved for you.