Natural Disaster

This is the secondary revision. A large window
to the ocean.

(I wanted to finish the book
about my mother
in an idyllic setting.)

This is the instant the wave curls towards the window
and the computer quietly trembles.

I say to my mother: I'm taking you upstairs
to be with your husband. Mother,

I'm wheeling you away
from the storm.

But she has forgotten what husbands
are for. I tell her they are to roll towels
under the door.

(For lunch we had squid. I overcooked it to rubber.
It bounced from the pan
as power of attorney .)

The sky darkens and the town scrambles to empty. I know
this is my last chance to add

footnotes or a glossary.

Over the loudspeaker the absentee landlord
offers a helicopter. He assures us, "All the papers
are in order."

But it's a trick: he's lured me to his office
to collect the rent. And what to do
for lack of words
but show him
what it feels like
to drown. He looks unimpressed as
I suffocate my son.

This is the revision that rhymes. This makes sense
of time.

* And though you can sign your name
I try to sign it for you.