Ash Street
At first, only belongings lost.
She held in her hands
picture frames, broken plates,
pieces of house she had never known,
lengths of wire, heating duct.
She said, with each touch, Replaceable.
Then, next night,
her son.
She heard the siren in her sleep, awoke
with nowhere to hide,
her street no more than debris,
the subway crushed with refugees.
She held in her hands
pieces of him she had never known:
stomach, intestine.
She said, with each touch, Please don’t go.
When the sun rose,
she stood on a step that remained,
dress a mess of fabric
and blood.
She had never known how skin chars grey,
how air expands with loss,
how it glows.
– andrea scarpino