Mourning sickness. That’s why the name
persists despite its inaccuracy. Today,
two submarines carrying sixteen nuclear warheads
scraped. On our table, a vase of mauve daisies,
rosebuds small as buttons, fernspray spread
like a sail. It can strike at any time of day.
What was it like? I asked before
it happened. Can’t be answered. If when
a girl you ventured, wave through wave,
until one towered, overwhelming,
crashed into your body, your self not self,
all water and push—it was like that.
You are several specific doors
closing with a quick sharp click,
and the end of quiet. You’re a universe,
remote, improbable forest, a door opening—
no bigger—our roof blown off in storm.
Where ceiling was, clouds now, stars—