The Path of Non-Attachment
I was born in a cross-fire hurricane.
—The Rolling Stones
At 4:54 AM
Andrew totaled my car, leveled the house
& destroyed nearly every piece of furniture.
The day before, I could see the spiral coming
on the news. Everyone said ride it out. Batten down.
Buy water & canned food, but the shelves were bare.
I bought wine & crackers & black cherry seltzer.
I glazed, predictions tightening, my head swimming
room to room. I didn’t tape or board the windows
or light Lucky Maria candles. I couldn’t think to pray.
I packed my mother’s Amelia Earhart suitcase
with photos & journals I couldn’t replace
& left Homestead, unclear what must be kept
or let go, the way we marry & give ourselves away.
If only each disaster announced itself, a siren
warning of the storm we won’t survive. Whose life
can be replaced like new? More to have, to hold
but years? I stumble on the surest things I know.
And standing at an airport carousel
in another city, I watch an unclaimed bag
pass again that someone somewhere
feels better lost than found.
