Caldera

So I was half-watching the Science Channel

or Discovery Channel

or one of those,

and the show was speculating about

what would happen if the

enormous caldera under Yellowstone erupted.

And basically, we’d all be screwed.

I presume majestic buffalo and campers in their tents

would fly through the air from the explosion

and be incinerated,

and maybe someone like Bruce Willis or the Rock

could outrun a torrent of lava or ball of fire,

but Montana and Wyoming and Colorado

would be buried in ash,

and it would be like nuclear winter

everywhere else.

No air travel, no power, crop failure.

(And why do they show these doomsday programs

late at night when you’re trying to sleep?

Like I need one more fucking thing to worry about.)

I am terrified of unleashing my anger

at everyday provocations,

like rude drivers and passive-aggressive work emails,

and the ancient traumas that bubble threateningly

just under the surface.

I smile pacifically.

“No problem,” I chirp in response to the grossest imposition.

But if I were to vent, I am sure that

there would be a blast of bright light,

and nothing would be left of trees, people, cars, and houses

but piles of black ash for at least a five-mile radius.

Maybe later generations could reconstruct

peoples’ poses of terror and futile defense,

like the victims of Pompeii,

rebuilt in plaster.

Lava would shoot out of my mouth and eyes

and out of the ends of my hair.

The earth would shake under your feet

hundreds of miles away,

and if—IF—you survived,

you would tell your children and your grandchildren

that you could never erase from your mind

the sounds of the seemingly endless

deluge of profanity,

louder than any sound that’s ever been recorded

on modern instrumentation.

Luckily for you, this occurs only about

every few thousand years or so,

but no one knows the last time it happened,

so technically, it could happen at any second.