WATERMARK

Last year, about this time, I was in a funk before Katrina struck, and then — in my deep nest in front of the television — sunk further down.

I watched Americans pleading for help that did not come, and did not come — knowing with a dark certainty at my center that if these Americans had been white and shiny, waving from Connecticut roofs, help would have come much sooner. And yes, I do, still, believe this.

I thought I would never forget; I thought I would remember every day.

But I do forget. Days have passed without thought of this; a thoughtlessness that I, white and northern and safe (as safe as any of us) in my little house, can afford.

I checked the Thesaurus; nearly all synonyms for anniversary are celebratory: ceremony, festival, holiday… 

Last year, I was wordless for some time. Today, I repost the first poem I wrote after Katrina– a commemoration:

Snapshot 21 September 02005

bird cries lift me
from the shallow
surface of sleep

while i slept
flood walls broke
southern cities drowned

these northern hills
bleached tan
the maples turn

birches rustle
storms swirl
lifting the sea

south and north
autumn comes
north and south

the darkening