I am calm within the chokehold around my neck of the woods. Like stormwater pooled in a parasol, this unrehearsed disaster dance might just rupture me by proximity. For though my roof still holds above me, my chest is caving in.
New nomads reel from a sucker punch, as the news cyclone suddenly catches wind, and just as suddenly turns its eye away. Is it pride or folly or empathy, the undertow tugging me to bind the wound of every neighbor?
Or is it only human? Sidestepping spaghetti power lines, I settle on a fallen oak beam, and with no streetlamp competition, I behold above the empty canvas of debris— a show of stars I swear weren’t there before.
Perspective uprooted overnight, I see a city on a makeshift hill, each carrying another’s cross, splinters in white knuckles. And this—this must be the Church. When the steeple topples and floodgates bow out, there are strangers sharing a table.
