Holding On

by Monty Jones

Find something to hold,
the back of a chair, a table,
a doorknob, a kitchen counter,
on the stair the rough white wall.

Something that will not give
under the ordinary weight
of the Earth, though we bend
as if to be pulled away.

Why anyone thought
the Earth doesn’t move.
It wobbles. It trembles.
It shudders in the wind.

It wants to take us with it,
to bury us in the rubble
it is piling up like sand
on one of its wide beaches.

Some people tempt it
whirling through the empty air,
screaming with delight,
waving their arms.

I would not let go,
though the Earth whistles,
though it threatens
finally to break apart.

Here. I will hold to the door jamb,
and when that gives way
I will hold to something else,
and you can hold to me.