please don’t ask me
how are you?
what do you need?
these are the hardest questions:
impossible to answer
when the waters and emotions surge and recede.
there is no appropriate reply all response.
we are okay. we are not okay.
we are safe.
“time does not exist”
i wrote on a post-it note and put it on the oven
where the clock had stopped at the wrong place
at the wrong time.
“time loving each other is the only time that matters”
he replied the next morning while I slept,
and the two papers stayed there getting oily
when the power came back but the water didn’t.
we measure moments in bottles and buckets
and days in inches
and feet
and weeks in people and objects found again or lost. 119
now.
but they are still looking everywhere else.
can I bring you anything?
how can I help?
I don’t know.
No. Give it to others who lost everything.
But still, if I can be selfish…
First water, then gas,
eggs and OJ for me and beer for him,
if we are being extravagant,
but we cannot keep them cool.
it’s cash only here and shelves are bare.
a generator we got ourselves
but the noise was worse than darkness.
an at home doppler and blood pressure cuff
to make sure the baby and I are both still breathing
until we can see a doctor again.
what do I need?
a sense of normalcy, safety, to turn the lights on
when I think someone might be there or not be;
quiet, from chainsaws and sirens and helicopters;
to wash my hair, to flush the toilet and watch the water go
down;
to know we will be okay again soon;
to hug someone without crying;
to watch television, to scroll without seeing devastation;
to sit down and stretch for a moment without feeling guilty;
to exhale.
nothing you can give me right now,
but thank you, I love you.
