Cracked, by Magi Gibson

Cracked

I’m fine, is what I always say when asked, except today

when with a sigh I said, I think I’m slightly cracked.

You flinched as if I’d pierced you with a piece

of broken glass & in an instant, I regretted it.

We chatted on, the usual when-will-it-ever-end

hardly-see-anyone-these-days & all the while the sun

blazed down, a giant golden spoon tap-tap-tapping

on our heads so hard I swear my skull was cracking

like a boiled egg shell. I said, See you around, like I believed it.

Though I don’t believe anything anymore.

Fires are raging in the suburbs, wars exploding everywhere,

oceans swallowing the land in great mouthfuls of beach & cliff,

the planet is screaming as it boils & there is no vaccine yet

for stupidity or greed, while fascism in a smiling mask has slipped

into our living rooms promising [insert your dreamworld here].

Just sign on the dotted line. & sign. & sign.

If the earth’s crust were not cracked, I read somewhere,

tectonic plates could not shift, the pressure from the molten core

would build, the planet would explode. Perhaps, I think –

or am I saying all this out loud? – cracking

is a necessary part of staying sane in a world sizzling

with insanity. I hope you feel much better soon, you say.

Take care. & as you back away, I spot a window

with a corner crack, sunshine diamond-sparkling

in the fractures of its web. & further on, a tiny plant,

all green & gold, thriving where the asphalt splits.

At the coffee shop, a girl with mermaid hair & the future

in her eyes (though she does not know this yet) serves me

a pot of tea. I’m sorry the lid’s a little cracked, she says,

I think it pours okay. No worries, I reply. I guess we’re all

a little cracked these days.

by Magi Gibson