a natural distaster impossible to manage

[salvationarmy]

they said we'd get a hurricane this summer. they said the streets would be submerged; by october we'd be wallowing in pools stagnant with death, kicking the rubble from collapsed buildings as we step with dragging feet through the ruins that delineated the steps of our daily life. we would point out to each other in whispers the old landmarks, as though speaking more loudly would wake the ghosts: remember the wreck of the apartment on sixth street with the roaches and holes in the walls, where we would drink on the roof and dance until sunup? remember the twentieth story apartment where we made love for the first time, in front of the picture window, the creepy guy who used to watch us until we shut the curtains? the cafe where we bought our coffee, the bench we used to sit on to smoke and hear those old street blues sung by negroes old enough to be dead twice over, do you remember? all still there, somewhere, waiting to be rediscovered; our voices will not let them rest, our breath stirs the rubble into tiny eddies and our memories blow off like dust.
yet it is november, and our storm has yet to come. the city stands, but there is evidence of impending disaster in our days. we speak slowly, deliberately. we do not waste words in case of disaster, we will save our last breaths to call out to each other when the winds gather, to speak our last words of love and need against the storm hoping they reach the objects of their intent. after the storm, we will have to be strong, there will be no time for love and need; in the days after we will become haggard, thin, ribs sticking out our sides, jagged edges like so many words we have swallowed and refused to spit lest love become liability.