Today’s morning dawns like déjà vu: how you
left like it was forever, how we felt
as impermanent as newly ironed sheets,
shifting bedrock to sift for truth
at the river’s bottom. A cloud of fruitflies beggars
by the front door, just-hatched things
kamikazi-ing for freedom. I find ants
drowning inside the honey jar, dead with smiles
on their tiny ant-faces. Black birds
bowl up inside the bedroom gutters,
scratch like chickens in a strong wind,
hungry for April. But the weather is changing, and we
no longer lightning rods drawn
electric to ground—wake early; unclutch;
go about our hours like icebergs
sunk in an ocean of minutes.
i hold the hurt in the hollow bowl of my hips,
tipping my head to look for shooting stars
amid the fireworks. a too-
wet summer crawls up the newly scrubbed base
of the monument behind us: southern soldiers
un-graffiti-ed before September’s big race.
it doesn’t feel like independence, somehow,
or even reconciliation; more like a love
fizzled out before ever hitting night air.
In Nepal, they are dead by the thousands,
yet at night, in the epic tragedy of our bed,
they are hardly spared a thought as we fight
for the happiness so long missed. I wanted
this to be an easy poem to write: all sweeping
sentiment and unfolded perspective, laundry
tossed on the couch and handily sorted.
I, after all, have no burials to plan, no body to bear.
Survival is too far a concept to be bought dear,
though, and I am left with this landslide
of vague loneliness, wishing only for you
to hold me, for a kindness, for a plane ticket
to Katmandu. There are all kinds of earthquakes,
love; some nearer home than others.