After the Blast

Posting for 4/3/15 Poem-a-Day

After the Blast

She slams
the door and
he thinks of buildings
imploded by thousands of tiny charges
not one alone strong enough
but together
quite sufficient to turn order
and solidity to dust

She runs
through slanted rain
He remembers their last trip
laughing on the long drive
past August-high stands of corn
and draped black shades of ginseng
her face flashing as they sipped
iron-sweet water from a wayside pump

She didn’t say anything
when he reached into the bucket of perch
pulled one out to smack its head on the deck
before sliding the tip of the filet knife
into the white belly pulling out
vital things to be left glistening on old newsprint
Only turned back into the house

Now she disappears
up the street
and he sits heavily to consider
a juxtaposition of guts
and rubble out of thousands his brain holds
while perhaps some slippage
of memory will release what he needs
to start reconstruction


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