Rubble and bubble, the slaughter of water. That house held birds, words, hugs. This
boat holds someone else’s memory, our wreckage, our ankle-deep waste. Our eyes
squint in the salt wind, nowhere to go. In this exchange what good would guns do?
Smoky dreams of trout, the first fish of childhood, gasping in the rainbow grass, grilled
gray for supper. How early the sun set, horizonless! We were warm and alone, then
gathered up and cold. Now this—it will be cinematized. What if it were you in that boat?
The smoke would fill your hair. The horror you left behind, the awfulness ahead, as
specific as foam. Eyes bring no comfort. Coffee would, something that smells of kitchen.
This will never make sense. Sobs, laughter, someone always will, the music of the body.
There was a thought we had, something to do with the clouds, that column of smoke,
the color of innocence, that neighbor who frightened you. Saw a young woman sick
outside our first rock concert. She was being helped, swaddled. We could use that
blanket now, that reason for being sick. Being. Crushed flat by stone and metal,
rendered unrecognizable, a splash, spilled. No use crying. Chant it: rubble and bubble,
the slaughter of water. If there were somewhere to flee would that matter? If you knew
the make of the artillery, the intelligence that targeted, what house held them? To play
hurt the rest of one’s days in the widespread damage is still to play. To pray. A sound
exchange as water slaps the sides.
Don J Kramer
A teacher, writer, and editor in Southern California, Don J. Kraemer often writes to keep lines of communication open with his son, a frequently incarcerated person who writes poetry from the street and from the cell.