Before the Onslaught
What is an ear, but a snail shrinking inside the head?
The city crawls with men in safety vests
& hard hats. They swing from ropes,
climbing long ladders of dust. What’s sadder
than being crushed by your own house?
Shrouded in the bed that waited for the story
of your sleep each night. Now pinned beneath
its frame & fright. The windows scream,
never meant for killing. A window is an object
designed to imagine, to wander & feel, to swing
& hinge, to wind & light. That night it looked
like the city was under siege. The air thick with flight.
My father brought fixings wrapped in cloth,
like we were headed for a picnic in the hills:
cucumbers, white cheese, Arabic bread.
I saved the largest avocado for us to split.
Found an old plastic tub that smelled faintly
of olives & thyme. Who knows the memory
of a stone? The grief-span of rhyme? In the last
seconds of the dream I mash the green meat
with oil. When I wake I am sick with the taste.
What loss left ahead. Life left to spoil.
