East Eave
You saved two pictures:
one of the old house,
wisteria hanging from the east eave
and your son sitting on the porch step,
and the other--
a picture of me on a beach towel,
crossed-legged, a Mexican beer
in one hand a cigarette
in the other. Remember before?
We joked that nothing felt
like sin here. It was our
New Orleans, our sweaty heaven.
We were good neighbors.
We rebuilt, cottage style.
It's evening. The telephone's
rung out. Stove clean. Letters
stamped. The newsanchor
stares at us conscientiously,
braving the day's news
better than we can.
They expect the oil spill
to reach Lousiana shore
in two days, and we are silent.
We remember before, watching
that white fireball on the evening
news tumbling its way
toward us, looking at the pictures
that would not be saved,
and we're back there again:
hushed, ambient, the quiver
of air's disaster all around.
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