Magazine February 5, 2018, Issue

Poetry

A disaster relief worker hands a woman supplies in Puerto Rico. (Alvin Baez/Reuters)

DISASTER RELIEF

Three cuts I’ve gotten from the box knife’s blade,

and needlessly I wonder — will they heal?

as we remove debris for those who stayed.

My last guess in the word game is “unreal,”

for this is not the way my thinking goes,

and these are not the ruins of my nation,

with certainty — this rubble from the blows

of wind, these sheetrock walls, this insulation

so sodden still, the flood soaks through my shoes.

Again, I stanch these cuts’ re-welling blood.

My new, shamanic name should be “She-Whose-

Feet-Are-Wetted-with-the-Tempest’s-Flood.”

I’m punching through, I’m kicking at the plaster.

My crewmen pity me, and interfere –

our common hope, to mitigate disaster.

No tear …

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The Week

The Week

‐ We thought Cory Booker might be after the Democratic nomination in 2020, but apparently he’s campaigning for an Oscar. ‐ Michael Wolff’s Fire and Fury has enraged both Trump loyalists ...
Poetry

Poetry

DISASTER RELIEF Three cuts I’ve gotten from the box knife’s blade, and needlessly I wonder — will they heal? as we remove debris for those who stayed. My last guess in the word game ...

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