By W.S. Brewbaker
I ask my friend why geology.
I like the faults.
A plate shifts an inch and china
splinters. A driveway cracks
open, grinning like a trench
on the floor of the Atlantic Ocean
five miles down, where molten rock
pumps up from the core
and clots into a viscous crust.
A rib cage unhinges beneath the slit
of the scalpel. The heart not yet visible
but already showing
the first tremors of aftershock.
W.S. Brewbaker was born and raised in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He currently attends the University of Virginia, where he studies Political & Social Thought and Poetry Writing. His work is forthcoming in Lost Coast Review, After Happy Hour Review, Stepping Stones Magazine, and Gyroscope Review.