Yesterday, a cloud burst in mythologies and the rain fidgeted over the retreat
of a tidal pantheon; deities swept away by a current, and we stood awhile, watching
the moon elbow out the dusk. Breathing is burdensome when cars float on water
and corpses leak out of cavernous basements. Every tablet, etched, in the cold
heart of building code was read again and then again. It wasn't enough to blame
Aeolian whim or the raging riposte of Apollo, now that we had marvelled away Gaia's
ozone skirt. Her amnion always leaked in folkloric floods each time she birthed
a parable. She once asked Noah to build an ark so he could ride her waves
and we scrape the sky to impale her in shards where her womb is soft and yielding,
as we sour the air and burn the water and strip her of her emerald sigh and melt her hills
and silt her wetlands. Mostly it was the asphalt plastering her yearning that calcified her veins
and arteries, as she died slowly under our feet. We could hardly fathom her sorrow for the tears
rolled off her torso like an oil slick and rode far into the subway for sewers.
Hurricane Ida’s remnants created deadly havoc in Pennsylvania, New Jersey and New York days after the system hit the Gulf Coast — some 1,000 miles away (npr.org) I composed this poem in the aftermath. Read further at my blog. Originally published at http://davinasolomon.org on September 4, 2021.