cowriter Rachel Kellum
We filter through rubble with shovels, then screens
Victims of a still, silent panic
searching for pieces, rough hands turn soft
ears first listening for the quietest screams
then, wailing, wailing
for what is
and what never was: this
soft against our face,
and what is this?
It’s the waiting then, the waiting now, the walking away
Predictions. Warnings. Forebodings. Dreams.
Shuddered. Shuttered. Ignored.
We fish our parts from ash,
stitch what lives beneath cluttered char
into new scars, into semblance of life
Routine, regime of morning, after-
light, writing new
As the ashes cool,
we rebuild each other with whispered words,
with wrapping around of
we limp as new creatures, though from
it looks like dance,
and our bones