a Haiti poem
as observers, we stitch together reels of tape to form memory. she says they showed a picture of the mass grave, mounds of dark skin melting together like swamp water. we've all seen the dead covered in sheets. in aftershocks, new holes are made in roofs, windows; crevices too small to enter become doorways. observing. it’s difficult, we say, to put our finger on exactly. through someone else’s lens. we watch them scramble in, leaving a hole in the street where they slept. giving water to thirsty babies, taking water from thirsty babies. each shifting leaves more holes. cavities. blemish on the earth, visible from satellites. now, a week later, they pull more children from the rubble. one is alive, bleached white with dust and arms open to the sky as if he is floating out on water.
