Today’s attempt: a love poem. It’s an aubade (a French form about a lover hoping that the dawn will never come), so I asked myself what would happen if the lover got her wish. The conclusion I’ve come to is that there aren’t enough love poems about natural disasters. I feel like I could do four or five very interesting variations on this theme. Too bad that’s not my theme for the week!
The wind would be first.
Men and women waving their arms, comic,
fired like bullets into trees, the slatted sides of houses,
mountainsides. And next the houses, the trees
lifting themselves from the ground, slamming
their blood-spattered sides against one another
like clumsy waltzers.
Here, in the sleeping four a.m. streets, it might
at first feel like flight, the bed lifting,
then the building itself lifting, and then
the awakening, the clutching of hands,
the children crying out in the other room,
the whirl and skitter, dizzying, the crunch
of the foundations going, and then, ah, then –
Following the wind like a younger sister,
the floods, the fires, the shudderings of the ground.
The end of motion, half the world sinking
into night, and, yes, all the rest of it,
so that the dawn
its brutal advance
and give me one more hour beside you.