Aftermath

The sky was a magnifying glass
and when I looked beyond the road,
everything got bigger and bigger
and blurrier and blurrier –
and it seemed that sun and sky
were collaborating to sear the trees away
like insects – and the forest roiled
just like a kicked anthill.

I’m sorry. I still can’t believe it.
The truth is that what I saw,
through a haze of myopia and cough syrup,
was a lot of red dirt and piles of striped rock
where the forest should have been.

Oklahoma will rise up to bury its dead,
in time, when the fear is less sharp
and the char has receded.
When the tree-limbs get their casts removed,
and the bandages from that last ice storm
come off at last,
Oklahoma will care for the dead.

For now the land is littered with
broken branches and abandoned tree trunks –
the red dirt and glare of newly-exposed rock
show through on the roadside
where just last summer we both
thrived off of dappled light
on the pavement.

For now the trees look like cancer patients
and the sleepy little winding road
through camp is a battleground
surrounding a stormed fortress.

And there stands what’s left of the house,
marking the tomb of at least one fallen hero.
The siding lies around it like heavy armor
shed to give its wearer one last easy breath
before death – and underneath,
the red wasp nests cover the boards
like welts, like wounds. Like wasps do.

And this is the last viewing before burial –
the last visit before demolition.
And there it stands. A fallen fortress
at the end of a bloody march.

Something tells me it will stand ready
for the next battle
before Oklahoma has even begun to heal.