I fall through a gap

in the asphalt,

twist my ankle 

on broken cement

in the garage

where we play

the floor is lava,

jumping 

from vein 

to vein,

because California 

is shot through

with magma

and earthquakes have shattered

the state’s

ten-year supply 

of cement.

We slip past 

a parking spot--

in a few years 

my teacher 

will lie 

in that same spot,

sandwiched between the ground

and an old 

Honda Accord,

hiding from a boy

with a gun.

The parking garage 

will survive

that shooting 

better than it survived

the earthquake 

of ‘94.

My teacher 

will survive/

has survived

both, 

but the city will only rebuild

the garage--

filling in its layers 

with brand-new cement 

for my teacher

to suffocate in,

waiting with one hand

over his mouth,

waiting with motor oil 

dripping

onto his forehead,

waiting for a pair 

of red-and-white sneakers

to pass by,

for the little kids 

playing 

the floor is lava

to go silent and still,

balancing their newly-

twisted ankles

on newly-

poured cement 

already completely

cracked through.