Natasha Trethewey
What's left is footage: the hours before
Camille 1969 -- hurricane
parties, palm trees leaning
in the wind,
fronds blown back,
a woman's hair. Then after:
the vacant lots,
boats washed ashore, a swamp
where graves had been. I recall
how we huddled all night in our small house,
moving between rooms,
emptying pots filled with rain.
The next day, our house --
on its cinderblocks -- seemed to float
in the flooded yard: no foundation
beneath us, nothing I could see
tying us to the land.
In the water, our reflection
trembled, disappeared
when I bent to touch it.
From Native Guard: Poems by Natasha Trethewey. Copyright 2006
1 comment:
been there 1969, was 7
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