Evening of the first day, the man who owned a truck yard
next door laid out plywood sheets on hard ground and said
Come— And all the neighbors came, bringing blankets,
sheets, canvas tarp, burlap— The very young and the trembling
old slept in vehicles, windows cracked open for air—
And the night air was notched with metallic smells but also
something almost sweet, like flowers— I did not want
to think what kind– And the following day it rained,
and then again the next, so between aftershocks we collected
water in pails and tin drums— Someone had a kerosene stove
and lit it in the shadow of the broken shed where the honeysuckle
vines were a vivid green interspersed with orange— And still
we refused to go indoors, though gradually we crept
back to those parts of our homes still standing— Porches
were good for sleeping— When the sun glimmered
through thin clouds we heard news of a few places
where we could walk to line up for bread, rice,
canned goods— And someone had busted a water pipe
near the park (just a little they said) and people went
with cans and plastic tubs for water— And the men
came back weeping, having dug out bodies from collapsed
buildings, from vehicles overtaken by landslides
on the mountain road— And strangers offered
rides, and helicopters hovered in the sky— And we heard
lamentations and questions on the lips of everyone— Faces
streaked often and easily, eyes filling with tears and blinking
not from the sunlight but from what they could barely endure—
—Luisa A. Igloria
03 15 2011
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.
