AFTER THE WATERS WAVED BYE,

calm returned. The storm was over,

like R. Kelly sings in his song.

But memory is an irreversible thing,

the way ash is the testament of ruin.

Nothing seemed ready to let go

of grief; not the people, not the city,

nothing. Of these, my eyes softened

to houses, half breathing, leaning

on each other like tired men,

and mud clung to their walls

like secrets no one speaks of.

I leaned too into their silence,

watched the doorways of these houses,

gathered with silt like time forgotten,

the scent of damp woods, books,

clothing, swelling like an old wound.

At a distance, a chair floated in a pool

of sky, its legs pointing upward, offering

thanksgiving for survival. A shoe lay marooned

in a gutter, its laces tangled like unfinished

thoughts. A child’s bicycle too,

wheels pointed to the sky, as though it had

once dreamed of flying but never learned.

Everything and everywhere was browned.

I raised my gaze to the sky, staring back

at me, too clear, too blue, as if

to feign blameless. And if I was to be

honest, I held no grudge against it.