A Look at the History of Haiti and its International Community
The reporter climbed the rubble, with a microphone.
The cameraman followed. The Haitians called back
And forth in a language, I could not understand, but still
I knew they were arguing. The reporter spoke into
The microphone as he looked at me. Into my television.
Into my living room. I am sitting on the couch. He then
Held the Interpreter of Sound down to the cement
The cameraman angled down. A girl’s tennis shoes.
And she is screaming. Boom and Echo. Screaming.
Only vowels. The vowels of all language. I held my
Breath for her, I held the remote control in my hand.
I could volume her voice until it filled my house and
Wake my roommates but the boulders of buildings
Do not move. Do we turn away to give privacy
In a moment that could be her rebirth or burial?
The cameraman panned up to her brother, blinking free
Against the blue sky, looking away from me. And I do not
Know if she was rescued. Or if the TV station replays
Her captive screams. And for one moment I sense what
we have in common, a breath in our lungs, our hands
clasped, a history book full of regret. I have buried this
girl in 200 words and she screams in every vowel.
1 comment:
thank you for writing this poem.
i'm awake inbetween doses of nyquil, and my throat is really dry, but i do have water to drink. I keep thinking about the people who are awake right now, trapped under things that have fallen down who are beyond thirsty now. It's hard to comprehend what they must be feeling, but vowels are so universal. Shakespeare knew that too.
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