We sat on the roof and watched the tornado come,
its morbid beauty growing by the mile. Mother downstairs
in a morphine coma, no longer wailing, “comfortable.”
Wooden sidewalks of neighboring shackle towns
had their boards ripped out, spun wet then dry.
I’d arrived with tarp and hammer and nails,
ready to batten down. Too late, the doctors said.
Already people were standing on their porches,
holding hands, accepting the jaundiced sky:
Mother’s eyes shut, sealed. Even the priest
stood silently, not suggesting we pray or repent,
no manic tarantella of I-told-you-so. A quiet apocalypse.
Children and dogs in their near heaven knowing,
trees bending acquiescent as reeds.
Mother sings names in her sleep, wheezing:
insistent wind through cracks in the windows.
My sister asks if anyone wants tea. The kettle blows.
This is how death comes, in the modern miracle,
gentle rain and a long, distant whistle.
(Source: tnq.ca)
• Poetry • Kim Fu • link •
