Because, and here’s my point,
because now, because loosened
by small destructions, because
shrapnel of civilization down
dizzy slow, because a little hand
drowning. Something’s falling.
Because empires of our beliefs
could inherit us promised days
but something’s falling. Now,
because we summon armies and
thugs unoriginal, barter a future
placid for a present spooked,
something’s falling because weary
apples weary, over and again.
Because only history supports
as we rant at kids on stick-
trembling legs, weep on fallow
chests, join neighbors one to
a four-cornered sheet stretched
to break the inevitable, study
a sky’s hindsight: Should it have
loosened more rain, moisting drops
to shimmer oily in sun, adorned
itself nirvanic swim-pool
aquamarines it’s marveled over
or painted indigo paisleys of a Hindu
bride across its breathy canopy?
Because what else? Recode
the Rosetta of history? Or will
love to our ones as cool heat
lifts soothing to the viridian
moss out of reach but scudding
close still, because the drowning
little hand, little hand, can touch it.
Sarah Sarai. First published in The Threepenny Review and included in The Future Is Happy.