That first fall here, arriving on the heels
of hurricane Earl: dorms vacated, the semester’s
start postponed, students moved to local hotels;
storefront windows boarded up along the coast—
I had little to feed to any flood should it ask
for some gift or trade for passage. I remembered
one of the scholars in my Fulbright orientation
confessing to her own naivete: arriving late
and navigating the subway, pushing with two
hands against a turnstile that would not budge.
The train station attendant informing her
Miss, you need to have a token; her panicked
reply, I don’t have any souvenirs. Back
in my hometown, every year, a neighborhood
went underwater with each storm. But always,
the residents returned to dig through silt
for furniture, pianos, gas stoves,
hot water bottles. Even the mangy dogs
limped back, sniffing for the posts
which they’d been tethered to. All
the lost boys and girls in the world are still
rowing the air above our heads, looking for
that shimmering window obscured under a net-
work of maps. And finally I understand
the meaning of that lost shadow: how
having one is proof of your ability
to affix yourself to place, to let the sun
impale your body upon the cork board of time.
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