Sixty seconds the earth shook beneath their feet
God-fumbled porcelain, the colonial palace rushing to pieces in the city center. Atlas
rolls a shoulder in fitful sleep, and hearts crumble. Dazed palm
trees studding the horizon, bayonet the sky while soldiers wander upturned roads
traffic patterns bewildered by broken lights. Missing parts. There is the scent
of apple-wine, white grape or is that frangipani. Beneath their feet, the dead
unavenged the murmur of sugar whatever else history absconds. Above, streaming
ticker tape of heaven besotted with photos though not as many. Video though not
as much. On scene the sound cuts out. In studio, talking heads are gumming
the words. Lip-synching the news, pantomime grief. You are the poorest nation they
assure us what they leave unsaid just might kill you. Think
we too understand such disasters as natural and forget the ones who preferred shark
and water-lung to hell on earth. Sixty seconds and Anacaona’s hair undone
rebraided tight as any noose with the world already winding its watch
and moving on without you