by m. nicole r. wildhood
(of hurricane Katrina, August 2005)
The water did somewhat recede, but not before its final fingering through the streets,
behind the living room sofa.
As it clamored away, its churning belly full of candlesticks
and stories that were not for the taking,
it held an image of the waning moon like a flapjack.
It would have taken work crews several moons to start walking on the ground again
had any been assembled,
one woman I know mounted her own mission to recover what she could,
a year after moving to another coast and starting over,
a year before she died.
Some people left permanently, many had no choice but to stay;
either way, the guzzling of all they had briefly streaming live
to a drama-struck nation, which was then swept on
to other things, left only to imagine
what it takes to begin all over again
with nothing but what’s in your gut.
published in Issue 1